C. J. Sage

you are not a poet when you enter me for the first and second and third time nor for the other few times you opened me reciting cummings as you drove my body with your body afterwards bringing your big thick hardback book to my bed reading my dreams to me talking 'these were written for us' soon after grounding the words between my stairs and your riding boots one listener never being enough i swear by the flesh of one hundred opened tulips you never wholly kissed me you are not the poet i thought but possibly you liked the thrill the play beneath the ventriloquy Cyrano

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