red asses of the infant
pomegranates the earliest
ones while most are still
busy becoming the color
of light red flowers does
that make me a nature poet
or if I said light red vaginas
would that make me shameless
as a New York post-modernist
poet who knows what to do
with poetry that’s the point
don’t turn it into a face book novel
don’t save it from its outlaw roots
its secret unprintable future
all it must do to reach you
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