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Feb 2014
God had made my hands to sin
though they only undress,
write poetry tender on your thighs,
Gingerly utter words learned
from schoolyards that
I, myself, can not share.

They are a calm defiance,
with beguiling bit of pressure
our palms' purpose becomes Coy,
sultry, creeping into frenzy.
We rejoice in the fever of
our nightly purification rituals.

We break the causes of language.
Retool the hymns
to praise us and shake
our frail lungs from servitude
for the sake of our cascading breaths.
Prayer is only to ourselves.
A current work in progress. This still requires a lot of revision.
Jory
Written by
Jory  Chicago
(Chicago)   
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