sex at antiochmy friend, a woman who checks her closet for labels that say large (thinking that one may have shown up during the night while she lay sleeping) picks a popped button off the cold tile floor, hands it to me, then pulls the tag off her new dress and says, with no hint of a smile, the definition of beauty is easy: it is what leads to desperation, cervantes's windmill on fire again, a suitcase of snow in summer, seven spills you make across her, across the body of your memory. |
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