Carried her happiness in hysterics.
Kicked the casket to the alley, on the verge
of holding her. That stuff of pregnancy and
contrition with the boltwork guitars--it's too
much. Surmise a slop of bad wine and hiss
like an egg in sunshine.
Go back to the bars she knew and must emerge.
The squeaking love-room's
repose talks of snake-hips and is,
and is, and is.
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