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Celibacy 1

ISSUE:  Winter 2015

Unmarried, the heart ejaculates
what it must, scarlet-purled, arterial,

away, away. Or conversely, married,
it requires all—venous, freighted with wastes.

Here the analogy breaks down.
On the radio, I learn the Brits

are into all things Scandinavian.
Sun-lit schools, bare breasts, the aurora borealis.

A “scandy trance.” Maybe. Ice is a mystery 
of whatever blue enchantment swiped

my view this morning. This is no allegory.
I’m north of myself these days

with a fist full of silver keys
I lose every night in my dreams.


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