Slightly-Parted ThighsAmy King
The bourbon won’t let me sleep, my pedagogical rose. I touch you and leave you alone like white pepper. As though to come right up against that which is not you. Abut or adrift, dovetail moonshine: I enjoy the burning eyes in somber words. Likewise beside me, the knitting missionary on the subway train forgives my bag against him. And I am back at it, bluebelted noon, attitude of sight, confession where a coat stands slack.
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