Poetry

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You are taking short, asphyxiating breaths. There is no air in you. I talk softly to you, aspirate you. Your lungs are full of what you have not said. You are not breathing. This place is anaerobic. I lance myself. My blood is thick and viscous And slowly saturates my clothes. There are too many others here. I now am mystified and cauterize the wound against your rage. Smouldering and breathless now we sleep. Fall 1991

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