Second Empire
The water, for once,
unmetaphysical. Stepping over
the stones, you pulling
your shirt over your shoulders.
The flesh-and-
blood that constitutes you
could have been anything and yet
appears before me
as your body. Wading out again,
I am a little white omnivore
in the black water,
inhaling avidly
the absence of shame.
We lie on our backs
with our underwear on.
The soul is an aristocrat.
It disdains the body,
staring through the water
at the suggestion of our human forms.
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