poem: unclean

leaning over the rooftop into her
music she lets men come and stop
like death cabs, she is not
finished, her art goes into
her pillowcase; she lies awake
afterwards and asks her lover—
(the plaster wall with
the lip holes)
hey, what if I wake up
and there is no Paris,
no bohemian cafe
where Hemingway wrote women
and Fitzgerald fucked them—
what if I am only
the first draft,
giving off smoke— hung loose
and raw from boys’ mouths,
their hands trembling.
it is our first time, we do not know
what is the price what
is the cost.






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