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Jazz Poetry

Lauren

By Published: July 22, 2006
She picked up two stolen plastic ashtrays and tried to play them, castanets.

I toss my ghost, my hat and coat over reached the dead back of the couch, a hounds tooth sky, tiny square dirty white stars. Cleaned with wine, held under a low murmuring horn we kiss, and lower.

You are sweet.

Up all night, the same record playing, doing things which could be scenes from a movie.

I do not feel bad until the earth pushes the plane away. Coins on the eyes, kisses on the lips, she is sweet.


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