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Jen Tynes

By This Poet

1

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.