Caroline Szpak

Pages: 1 2 3 4

Always Fucking Night Never Things

Every other slap

and sleeve

stuck

against a door.

You’re flown.

In Manhattan,

he’s a one-off, plump

as an ice cube, always wet

at the cuff. Here

the main attraction

a loose artery, sudden love

letter to thunder. Nails turn

pink without sun, trace profit,

two fingers

over your collarbone.

Ponytails headlong

water on the long sides

of the bridge. If you’re lucky,

potable seawater — plain

as farm dogs

on the floor —

so full of hands.

Find shade.

 

Pages: 1 2 3 4

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