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the way that he shaves his face

shows that he knows about the peach

and has practice on fruit to bear grace

and wear lace, what fate will beseech

when he steps over river’s bend

past testosterone’s breech

toward a whispering end

that’s been building in rhyme

she finishes typing long enough to send

he drifts through the wires transgressing time,

crossdressing hours of an ill-defined race,

finding themselves alone and in crime.

 

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