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My nerves are turned on.
I hear them like the finest musical instruments.
You did this.
Pure genius at work.

I have pitted you like a date.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February,
and as real as a cast iron pot.

I have camped on many womens lives.
They are my providers, my visionaries, my muses.
An orphans muse.

You are naked and singular, the sum of yourself.
As for me I am like watercolor, I wash off.

But still I climb you like a monument.
Step by step.