Caroline Szpak
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.
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