Four Poems

by Carl Adamshick

Letter

If you had any sense
you would be making love.
Your hands would be sloppy with it.
Your hands would be like your mouth
and your mouth like an eye.
All your parts
would be getting confused
in the half-lit darkness.
Your minds
sensing the same things
and different things.
We should be thankful, I tell you.
We should enter into the house
of gratitude and help cook dinner.

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