Questions of matter
keeping my arm from moving
like that, in groins or your head?
Was is it you want, red head,
when you move in closer to
the warm palm of my hand?
What is it you do, upper lip,
when you open up in smile
not telling me the real kick?
What is it you are, John Keats,
always there in my throat
like a lump of meat?
Whatever you are, these things,
questions of flesh, blurred vision of old?
I'll have to find out by another means.
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