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Harleen Seventy


Untitled 

I slurred my surprise, like 
errant waves 
 
Gorgeous men in the 
August fatigue
 
The nights pressed ahead, 
the edge of the known world 
like lapis 
 
I thought the 
unthinking bug-like dark 
was dapper 
 
Two conflating into one 
cooling, conciliatory sweetness 
 
My tongue lain with sticky sweet mirth 
and dreamless sleep 
 
The dirt of being singleminded 
was all over me, 
a scar layer of plaque  
 
Who says we can’t 
have the slutty past back 
 
I climb the 
pale altar, to 
turn death’s mayhem around 
 
Shrewdly-timed episodes of 
feminine woe 
 
August dealt in curious things, 
in feelings that were misheard

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  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP