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 A man is bending his wife.
He is bending her around something that she has bent herself around.
She is around it, bent as he has bent her.
He is convincing her.
It is all so private.
He is bending her around the bedpost.
No, he is bending her around the tripod of his camera.
It is as if he teaches her to swim.
As if he teaches acrobatics.
As if he could form her into something wet that he delivers out of one life into another.
And it is such a private thing the thing they do.
He is forming her into the wallpaper.
He is smoothing her down into the flowers there.
He is finding her nipples there.
And he is kissing her pubis there.
He climbs into the wallpaper among the flowers.
And his buttocks move in and out of the wall.

by Russell Edson
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