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from the September 2005 issue

Friend midear

Midear, you won't understand but listen
The pain I cannot weep into a handkerchief
The words are somber like a procession of kings
For your soul with sad, dry lakes

I called you with lots of love
Your breasts are flowers without pots
And they sting raspberries with a taste of milk
The pillow cloud the freshness of a night

Orange peels in your hair, stud farms in your desire
Sun in your eyes, craving on your lips
The flesh smells like hay after rain
Ripe peaches, May honey and shade

I'll definitely buy you earrings
From Jewish jewelers
I'll give you the seed of rare flowers
To develop your literary taste

Do you want it? Caress me, rock me
My fiancée died
Ask me who she was
And tell me when you'll leave

Midear, you won't understand
But it's a beautiful thing to be in a poem
A blooming insect, you entered
My body with moldiness and iron plumbing

Read more from the September 2005 issue
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