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I’m never a poet when I’m near an orgasm.
It washed over me....cleaned me out like a triple-dose of laxative.
A thousand mice run up and down my legs.
He understands and lets me laugh and tickle his arms
I furrow his eyebrows the wrong way,
pick food from his teeth,
sit on his stomach.
Sometimes I feel like writing afterwards--
concentric scribbles			smooth &
flowing,
a twisted
rose, or darkened shadows behind
the overlit bedside mess¼
Kleenex, glasses, digital clock.
Orgasm is just a scribble to me.