In all the pleasance of your seriousness, you would tell me
that pleasance is not a word! But you know what I mean,

you always have. Already I am pressing my thumb between
my eyebrows, in distress, you see, the way you like to do

when discussing your old friends. Such pleasantry to be
with you again, in your seriousity like marble, not cold,

though, but like the spot on the floor after you have lain
on it for a while. So I press my cheek against your marble,

not-cold, in all sweetances, grievances, so much of those
have you given me! Tell me again about your loves, those

girls who transform the road between their house and yours
into runways; they are airplanes, whirring toward us

at incalculable speeds! I’m sure you could, though, if you tried.
Calculate, I mean. Here, put your hand on my face again,

press hard. Do try, this time. As for me, I’m all tried out.

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