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From Jerika Marchan:

June 18, 2018

Desire me ruthless and naked but still in my Sunday dress
you opened the window—we humid and slept open
into dreaming, yes, conduit. Conduit or nothing. Conduit
or bust. Nothing or busted. Hug the breakwater’s edge

more the grit, my fingers—whorl, the inches of all
concrete make miles of this low, walled city.

[A Crumb in the Cobblestone—Tell Me This Landscape Darkened Without You]

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