Her body was the most persuasive rhetoric;
her legs were bold stems breaking through
the water, sending out an undulating
wave received by each distant shore;
her eyes were of a depth I had not known
in any book, in any one before,
not in the labyrinthine, fictive Borges
nor in the curt sophism of Duchamp;
her skin was clearer than the evening air
in January, when the wind is dry
and cuts through layers indiscriminately;
so in this argument I am now lost,
confused by her ubiquities of light
and dazzled into receptivity.
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