The cow that
came home from verse. Not a camel.
That would
be too obvious. And drinking too often is
a slap in
the face for both of us. Who has the right?
The camel
passes by, chewing cud; exhausted.
The cow
carves the air with its bell. Enough said.
We have
dined with, and of both, with the beginning
rested on
the end piece of a word. A drink, to the
gravel
bitten through us in so many ways. A drink,
but who
drinks of the dead? The camel is not committed.
I really like this.
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