Westward, the greyhound hums on,
The sun is here, though its not,

I saw her again, last night, in soft luminance
More angular, incredulous in pearls
and, ribbons, waist,

and wild flowers sniffed, by enamoured Slavs
Uncreased white, but this nat to do,
with purity, or even tunnel-vision,

My Mittleuropa Jew, more than a point of view,
A face, a puzzle, slotted by soft kiss
a faux-confessionalism, a kind of faux-therapy,
That, raised eyebrow not so,
insolubly wedded to all my mea culpas, thick layers,
of, excuses piling up, but,
But, fades into a squinting paroxysms
The cheeks, that produce,
Celestial bodies,

A face that you might die in the mud over,
even though, it were no,
But no, I won’t hurt her,
Thought me the basherter, indivisible,
the bashertee, but of course,
latent, opportune for ‘bashed and hurty’,
Yours, dezerty.


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