Neuro Logical
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.