First I press clay to my eyes and swallow.
          Peter puts my cheekbones in a mold and my voice softens like a young
sculpture.
          In my next sculpture,
wine.
          In tonight’s dream, my open shirt completely soaked.
          When I speak, my face hemispheres. He takes it. He presses my thighs with it. 
          The table turns into a long line of low beach.
          Downstream, something comes towards me.
          While we wait, he cuts his appetite with string / starts
feeding me wet sand. 
            It’s kind of like
swimming.
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