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You are the plungers of tongues, public as fountains, the human spewers of fortune, full of the right to act, strong and angry enough, your hair outrageously done, your minds clear as rain, sharp as nipples, taut as the finest hairs just discovered on each others' bodies, bodies that need above an to be touched O yes, O yes, or else undone; need to be verified, magnified, holy god what part of the inscrutable plan is this, what generosity of feeling, floated upon, penetrated?


And the old lovers, walking slowly, bridge the shifting, flickering background of joggers, cargo ships, toothed skyline between the contours of their bodies; bridge with held hands, a knot that secures jittery bones, loosening flesh.


This fountain jets upward in a slick solid stream that denies its poverty at the top: the fat, drooling, inarticulate tongue disintegrating down to the turbulent pool. A small boy runs for it, jumps belly-upon-rim for the waters, as his father's hand clamps down upon the boy's back, stops him short. Then (the boy's fingers have, barely, broken the skin of water) he lifts his hand to a hover, a low cumuli, a clapper without a bell--conscious and voiceless.
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Author:Swift, Doug
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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