it was not the kiss of the spider-woman
that led him to Giovanni’s room
so small a thing as a boy
climbing fairy mountain
it was not ennui of cohabitation
that led her to jiggery-pokery
tongue-flicks on a jew’s harp
unsheathed fingertips
not mutated but heteronumerous
a pastiche of emotivity
breast by cheek by bone
awaiting naturalisation
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