At Night, Long Ago
Id get stoned in mirrors.
Stoned on the shape of
my own foot.
There was nothing at stake.
I kept my kitchen in a box. My closet—a pink sheet.
My desert boudoir—a vanilla candle.
Every night Id rummage my
self like a mysterious trunk.
Kissing books with fervor when
I finished them. I pressed my lips like Islam
to the front, the spine, the back.
Anais Nin, Plath, Jack Kerouac.
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