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Stargazing on a Humboldt Hill

There are sharp stones pressing constellations --

Pretty, pin-prick dimples -- into the soft

Skin of your ass. You pray, mouth shapes, for grace.

Your thigh-back blood smears some on the gravel. 

High-beams from passing rigs anoint your neck

In kaleidoscope gold which settles there

Like dew-fall does then trickles 'tween your blades.

You inhale quick then purse your lips; cold teeth. 

We climbed this hill to sin like kids wicked

But now you've got the blanket on your lap. 

I point high: "Those stars are dead or dying."

And in response, but not to me, you sigh:

"So that my life may be only a radiance of yours,

I best be phosphorescent."

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