Wednesday, November 14

Pink Tongue

o’clock seven, the birth of a November day
the twelfth squeezing into her dress—heaters
& customers paying to be taken to work

law! ride me on out; the flat obstruction-
less vague landscape in blue mascara, the papers,
one-sixty pence coffee gone up; yellowed labourers,

grey workers,—round freely Weeley the farmer’s
unpregnant wife with naked trees round her brow
and the placenta sky brewing outward;

huge happy tongue cloud extends extended on port
pink, wo boy, we venture down its throat (a hemi
sphere of tongue, a peaceful sun at the tip

like a lollipop, a blister, a clitoris) and the
white girl with blonde hair and a wrist between
her pearls photographs ahead the nine hour desk

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