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No, not jazz, but your legs
or laxity that wakes up sleeping
when you're naked and without clothes
let you have an animal later
wind and dryness
But no, not your legs
but the closeness, the way to your waist
circular motion sickness in your hip that I'm
Crazy geometer
open in front of your sex rough
runaway, ready to weather
No, not your waist or your legs but your mouth
autumn and melancholy violins and Verlain
,
your tongue Mediterranean
what amazes my mouth my tongue
domestic
pales to my senses
's late, do zonda, that wind
obstinate and cursed.
The wooden window afeizar
complaint about a jazz session in blue's
My clothes and yours, unnecessary, redundant
atavistic
heat that suffocates us,
happily lie dead.
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