Lovely girl with your teeth bared and bearing down
on one white knuckle, you could be picking your gums
for all I care — yes, there now is that sad mouth,
bright lips, your eyelashes sweeping your cheekbones
like a particularly enthusiastic janitor. Let me rummage
through your plastic make-up kit, let me snip the stray
threads from your hems.
            O where
do you tuck your used tissues, warm and damp
from that Roman nose? Can I bury my face in your
cast-off skin, accumulating like so many snowflakes
on the denim landscape of your shoulders?
Can you show me, o girl of the restless fingers,
what to seize, and then what to throw away?

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