It’s not me, doll. You cannot
blame me. You don’t believe. I’m no
blue-eyed boy for you, no curvy

stair leading you up and up. You don’t
believe in up. And what that means
for us is extrication. If you wouldn’t

mind untwisting my smoke from your
nylons when we both did that, okay?
Think of us as a 1960s movie, one

early on, the way you can still
watch like Tippi watches Birds and re-
call vague shards (if you squint)–

how he grabbed her, scared her, how he
ordered scotch. You don’t want taken
these days, you hate that taste. Why

then, when I pass you on the street
do you drop like a monk? Why the throwing
of your lovely body across oceans like 

some chivalrous raincoat? Mis-
placed self-regard — that’s all I can
think. It’s possible to project

a thing: voice, self, spear. I’m not what
you’ve come to hate. I don’t loom so
large, not no more. Doll, you’ve got to

figure out who-it-is what’s eating you.

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