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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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