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Taste of Vertigo

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Taste of vertigo, and you, by the window—
slow arc of your back, against the dark,
a bowstring pulled taut.

Clinging to a confession, sheet clings low,
intimate pulse, speaking in hunger,
something like a prayer.

Every sigh my name, vowels in cognac—
thighs like a cathedral’s arch,
burning a midnight torch.

How godless we’ve become,
when your teeth find my wrist,
and the moon is just a rumor—

Taste of vertigo, and you, by the window.

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