militant

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a light rain falls
billions of miniature candles
spill pulled by grave attractions
hot wax
cool cubes
everything I want
not a stitch of smoke anywhere
thank you very much
not the smell of sense-and
smell of my love
would be
clogged by odor of sativa
nails
gasoline

but,
allowed in my picky place
inner odor,
between toes,
that mapped naked back
stretched for display
exploration deep into exotic
nook and crevice
not anointed by anything
not produced by human
or milk from a pure
laid out
hand held
valley breeze
virgin question
shut door
out lights
no sky
less air
extinguish

puff

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