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I find myself unduly composed

in the most malignant moments—

some aberrant configuration

of Woman:

muscled, yet bony in artful places,

prone to drifting faceless

with nothing but a compass

and a distant star

to press it to.

Timid Michelangelo,

I did not mean to startle you

with my emergence—

an unholy, flaming virgin

under stone. But you,

and you alone,

can deconstruct me—

can cleave abruptly

this pitted carapace.

Ergo, I entreat

the hand of the creator

to greater good favor

and, unabridged, erase.


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