how lonely is your poem

First, are we taking shape. Columbian man writes a poem with me and when he tells me love cannot be believed, I want to take him into the middle of the ocean and ask him how that salt feels. In an audience of scattered queers, I sit with notebook on lap and lines waiting to be traced as young couple reads poems about each other and I look toward my hand and notice it empty. My breasts prefer to bounce wearily in the summertime. Must bodies be well-mannered, manicured, contain management in order to put others at ease. Antique market follows me home on a Tuesday evening, and I browse handkerchiefs, records, jewelry and a hidden casket which frightens me away. I can cry when I open my mailbox and find your ransom note inside, with beads and music, type-written letter. Tell me how you’ll kiss me with your metal and blood. My window is open; search for the screen rusted between brick ladders.


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