Barbara Turney Wieland The Sin of Listening Twisted in sheets, listen whet your tongue moisten your ear and hear down on the crumpled street sparrows lifted in the wind whirring motors felt out whistling voices Send out your senses, listen into underlying layers of doubtful asphalt to playful veins blue below full of bloods and sticky juices Listen for the moaning coming from this misted perfume coming to me from your rose-strewn bosom Vibrating deep inside far-away distance soaked in tears on a pillow washed already a hundred times
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