I know
if the last non-truncated
umbilical
cord were abjured
I’d cut
it off with the same hands:
the same
hands of mine that I’d try
to
love, feeling the walls of a maiden’s
womb in
love. Three drops of blood
would
fall drop by drop from my finger
on the
open vagina that weeps to swallow
me. She
touches me incessantly, I sense
her hand
incessantly and again I discover her
and
again she discovers me as does
the sea
troubled by an underwater gong.
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