Vermeer, or de Bray
Where the cloth always appeared
Softly folded, lapped as layers
Of skin-like fatty tissue
If it had been the surrealism of Dali
You would see the distorted shape
Take on another reality
But here, in Joe’s room
The clay pots hang with a purpose
Without of decoration, simply perforated
Perforated for the air to move
For the testicles to breathe
His emblem of the love...
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