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after love has it’s way

I won’t get frightened by the Madonna under the bed, the stiletto in the back, flashback to a childhood memory, the ballerina I busted on my sister’s jewellery box.

The toothpick crowds of new York in the pinstripe hours are slim pickings for a poet. I’m either at the bottom of the Hudson river in concrete boots or reflected in a mirrored ceiling after love has it’s way with me.

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