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Textures

Gradual slabs
of cloven self
shift palms along
skilled faults

Slipping gasses whisk
cool endings under skin
recording flow and ebb
of drafty tides.

The slick lumen's pulpy bolus
from taste to tumble
lends its subtle fullness to
the sensual weave.

Even our firming friction
seems a curious niche;
cosmos copping feels
of undividuality.

After all i
and you are only
two of god's fingers
stroking a hardened nub of world.

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