from Archer Avenue

My ribs are a lovely museum you know,
all spooks and idling chevrolets.

Amazing, the glow that finds its way
into open spaces. This mouth like a

broken reflector, a length of silver chain.
By now, I've burnt your maps.

Brown edges curl among the foxglove.
I've carved a heart in the tar

that lines the shoulder and assembled
my name in bottlecaps. In ballrooms

down the road, women spin bluish
in taffeta for fifty cents a dance.

Lucky for you, I'm easy.
My pink shoes abandoned at the turn.

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