i can no longer get myself out
of myself moving
slow, the outreached hand put
here to live, black-slick
in the timid distance
between the table and your leaving--
how sad it can be to not
understand, my mouth
dropping open to an Oh
and now, in the middle of summer, a harder
season of cold breaks
into several different pieces, pale, within
our sight as i ask, what
type of girl do you think i am?
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