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A Daemon Hesitates at the Waters

Their arms raise above their blonde air,
stretching their breasts upward, all of them 
together, unclothed white prayers . . . 
two punctuated, spiral prayers from each 
woman there in the warm lake.

You watch, watch, watch . . .
are there nine women down there or ten?
This view from the forest
is not what you expected;
you anticipated bathing women,
a luxury of discovered flesh,
not these syncopated breasts
which frighten you . . . 
for an unclear reason . . .
as if they wield convincing power,
these united female bodies.

What if there were some plans
for birth . . . some conspired
suckling of nipples?  What if
there were indeed some purpose
to all these fleshly endeavors?
You never, never, anticipated
this quantity of white breasts
raised in unison, lifting blueward,
from the heated, brown waters,
and where you had always believed
in the redeeming ascendancy of breasts,
you are now left disquieted and silent.

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