poem: virgin in the bookstore

see this: a girl draped over her table

with moths and green vines all thick and

hot inside her, their lisping mouths poking

up through her fingernails, their strong

buds opening between her legs; she is

tightening and turning softly in the chair,

softlysoftlysoftlysoftly

so that the library people do not hear the

rustling of her soul and instead

think it is only books turning,

the pages all green with unspent sex.

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