Like Rousseau
She stands beside me, stands away, the vague indifference of her dreams. Dreaming, to go on, and go on there, like animals fleeing the rise of the earth. But standing intangible, my lust a worked anger a sweating close covering, for the crudely salty soul. Then back off, and where you go? Box of words and pictures. Steel balloons tied to our mouths. The room fills up, and the house. Street tilts. City slides, and buildings slide into the river. What is there left, to destroy? That is not close, or closer. Leaning away in the angle of language. Pumping and pumping, all our eyes criss cross and flash. It is the lovers pulling down empty structures. They wait and touch and watch their dreams eat the morning.
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