Her hair, that of a purling wave,
argued for a miner's wages,
contended with bleak preachers,
presented utopian programs.
Her waist, that of a bust of Homer,
dreamed of butterflies, thin branches,
mocked my Blackberry dialogues,
laughed all the way to sunset.
Her cheeks, her butt, her absent eyebrow,
diminished by distance, swollen by silence.
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