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If at the wrist my hands I clip
(reaching still to grasp at
you),
fold them together,
morning glories struck
by too much sun
or night,
place them in a mailbox
by some damned nostalgic lane;

If with a pliers I crush and twist
my voicebox (calling out your name),
If (ah!
                                crystal-sizzle,
                                                          sliding down)
molten glass I pour
into my ears;

If I with railroad spikes impale
my eyes;

If then in darkness I recline,
a white-hot angel
on a cloud of pain,
and strum my own dull harp of pride;

Master! will you then deign to give
one lucent, darkness-piercing kiss,
that I might from child-crushing lips
taste pleasure's final nectar?

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