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I find meaning in the eyes that look out

like exhaust in the air, flapping like curves,
moving like the vicissitudes of doubt,
seeing little, and bending 'round like curbs:
Somehow, though, people miss the point in me,
which has always been to face up to love,
and I'm forced to paint a tenebrous sea
with the bleak depth of my visceral bluff:
You've bit, you've felt the punch on that bright eye,
turn dark like the sea, impenetrable
after the moon looms through the clear night sky,
and the earth throbs, and you feel unstable:
Yes, the bruise reflects the sky at nighttime;
I'd dress it, if you'd let me daub some slime.
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