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Slightly-Parted Thighs

Amy King

The bourbon won’t let me sleep,
my pedagogical rose.

I touch you and leave you
alone like white pepper.

As though to come right up
against that which is not you.

Abut or adrift, dovetail moonshine:
I enjoy the burning eyes in somber words.

Likewise beside me, the knitting missionary
on the subway train forgives my bag against him.

And I am back at it, bluebelted noon, attitude
of sight, confession where a coat stands slack.

Amy King

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