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Dome of the Pentacrest 

I’ve felt the rough patch of skin on your forearm,
the acne on your back like brail,
the hair you grow on your legs in winter.

I’ve twisted it into tiny mountains with my thumb and forefinger.

On some blue Saturday;
the giant of the Iowa sky
(90 degrees Fahrenheit)
winked his bright eyes at our bodies

Laid down on a smooth roll of hill,
we let the stops loose from our throats.

Your pulse comes strongest from the tendons in your neck.

When I touch my finger to them you roll your head back
and the tendons go taut

the pulse drawn closer to the skin.

Everything smelled like dirt
and the bog was branded bright orange by our tiny sun,
rising out into the bruisedgrey New York sky.

We yawn together:
your shoulder to my rib, your hip to her elbow,
her shin to his wrist, his skull to his collarbone.

Our hollow early morning talks echo out to the bank across the still water,

and we learn that at five in the morning there’s no such thing as lying.

I feel the warmth under your skin and the toughness of your muscle
you’re raw meat, all the way through.

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