by threes all peters
are sucked on your knees
let Tourette’s inform my aesthetic
a momentary precognitive blurting
as surly Ur-poem
the way walking unleashes
the dogs of feeling
which really look worse
than miniature centaurs
or are they already
being bred and ridden
never switch centaurs
mid-sentence and yet
you must you know
whatever does not manifest
here manifests there
nothing is lost now
I’ve stopped trying
not to love you
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