Maid of Honor, bent daisy-white over the table, herbest dress, fingers like tapeworm -- light and strangled on his arms, dying on his lapel; he took her to foam-swept edge, champagne toast. shekept on sidelines, skirting the women and their loudness, shewas attached hip-and-hearth to piano; they had brought someone in and wouldn't let her… Continue reading poem: Mary Bennet
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 