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Sixty Minutes By David Hunter Sutherland Locks and tendons and yawing gaps creep slipshod to a wedded plunge of sentimental bliss and empathy. Someone feels for you, (hung and half reels for you) over inviolate curves, trapped between the walls of hip and world, the lower - upper strata fantasy. Nature could dare steal back; so sweet a thing could flourish, seize all hope beyond recrimination. Someone gives for you! The illusion grandeur takes to you, between sixty seconds of sixty minutes one could fall in love. For the hour has sparse left its minute dangling past the moment past the watch on your wrist, another takes to you at equidistant points between porcelain and chin over nacre smooth teeth and haunting eyes. One could collapse into rain huddled over mud-slick earth, over flesh and loving, over uncensurable pain rewound to a shower of breath and lips that plant an old crop, tills a new field, sews a new way. |
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Document last modified on: 08/09/1997