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Jen Tynes

By This Poet


After tagging the dust your body is made of

                After tagging the dust your body is made of 

                sheets flash ceremoniously on the line, in

                the rain, I am a bone and I take a bone's

                pleasure around the ball joint, shading

                inside the names. When I pass your body in

                the hallway the illumination gives us three

                minutes of standing adjacent to the fetish 

                dying. Electricity changes, there is no body

                to acknowledge through touch, I fling forward

                past my desires into the formal living room

                with its collection of bells and its collection

                of jaw bones. The sparkling line runs across

                my statement of purpose. To endanger all

                sense, I lay the body out of its own range 

                of prediction. Token animal, what you know

                is circling the house, waiting for the first person

                or its shadow to appear. Without looking

                forward to sinking through the body, I am 

                still mostly lover position. Place the bone

                in the window spider plant and beacon.