If I anchor myself to your hands

will you
cut them off at the wrist?
Say oops,
be right back,
need some Band-Aids,
a fifth of gin
I am going to nurse these stumps,
over here,
behind this boulder
in the hot hot sun
and dry dry dust,
just to be away from you
and this deep dark needy nitty gritty?

Well you should.

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