Chaste flesh,
the African fetish.
All we have is curiosity.
Apophatic shiver,
Ripple in a puddle...
Luxurious and hopeless,
Bodies that are touched
but undiscovered,
taken and discarded
for the hell of it.
What kind of knowledge is possible
for the affluent and ignorant
whose suffering is venal,
whose minds are avoided by thought?
Which is more truthful,
The presence or the absence,
The body or its memory,
The object or the word?
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