I often wonder how my fellow denizens of Pilgrim land cleverly destroy their bodies in
the evenings, or why they don’t, why we always wake shaking and slump-tired from peripatetic earth and body sharing, from our cigarettes tracing ladders, the ladles and the dog-stars disguised by crepuscular fog,
Where we’d be smoking in lipless polka dot dresses
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i love you.
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