#1180 I went with her on a daytrip inside her head; there were kids’ toys, storybooks, red monsters, fire trucks, silver streaks, stairs, rooms everywhere, it was a funhouse, but in each mirror she looked different, and I couldn’t see myself—
#1209 Poems with “I” and “she” are older than the galaxy, have power to rivet me, because there is no “I” for me without a “she,” even if I feminize this highly vaginal computer screen, my seminal hands—
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