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dear paul

once your hands made soft clay

out of the muscles of my neck

the ancient place

where i hold ten-year tension

muddy muscles melt

under your hands like rain

who taught you that kind of compassion?

and how could you touch me

so nurturing and so selfless

and not keep touching me?

how could you feel my lips

on your lips

and not taste more?

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dear paul

all we are is words on paper dreams in slumber and dreams in daylight the chances that you could also be writing me from across the globe are thin as this here paper why do i write to you? why does yo

dear paul

tonight, more than anything, i long to dance with you to be embraced by your lean, long arms like a cluster of young fruit growing up within the embrace of the blueberry branches in july when we dance

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