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are gone

When I kissed her

she tasted like change,

like the face of the moon

suddenly showing her dark

I did not notice

Still yet in the chicken yard,

thinking it mattered,

that it would bother her,

I curdled the milk and ruined the beer,

unspun the wool and frightened the cows,

crowing at my body’s breadth—

while she, oil-grimed, skull shaved,

quietly built red engines

to carry herself off