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The Family

Two people. Red-tide wave of that house they make.
Letters from beyond the beginning. She and her him, alone.
Breaking two-point system, making one-point break
of a palpable oneness they make themselves in.
The child. A girl. A boy. The name is androgynous.
They begin bringing them up to pieces. Until they form
Their own construction. Growth. Last waking lust mood.
Deconstruction begins in end’s final beginning.
Then it burns frameless. Walks are made toward the side
Part of their walking, liking, eating books whose answers
like her hourglass drip at the end of saying:
i love you, let my words slip unto your pants tonight.
Then make me in. Catch this plastic strip. Do not let it drip.
Come in. Go out. A flesh going about the breathing part
of you and him being one again in night’s last aloof embrace.
Morning. Dawn. Afternoon. Two-hours after noon.
Beginning is only the middle sense of two
lies drawn together like going somewhere solid.
Somewhere peaceful. Real.
Somewhere in between
two people: red-tide wave of the home we make.

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