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The finishing school girl - Elizabeth Pierson

the city makes the sweat

on her thighs into neon—

her lipstick is left

on my car rims and auto-

matic heart; when we roll

down the glass something

else comes

down too; she stands in

her grandmother’s parlor

in St. Louis with lace marks

on her legs—

the film rolls, catches the

salt taste of her tongue,

thrashing like

the herons did, when the

development went in.

now when you taste my spit

it is all foreign:

we are made like berlin

and ecstasy, the white birds

roosting and fucking

in my silver-spoon

mouth.



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