Irigaray’s angel = mobility, multiplicity.
The cleft1 in the birch’s otherworldliness.
When I settle in, all the bees
release their sore honey.
I am fungible2—kneel near
the several chanterelles, frilled
for their accelerating de-
composition. Like sets of lips
a stacked anonymity.
Ibid the ibid. A dragonfly hovers its
simulacrum3—enters the fungi—
thrilling to thrust us
the ibid, op cit, to auto-
erotically, see the all of us.
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