that will contain us like a marathon with no finish line,
and if so, that we land like newspapers before sunrise,
halcyon mornings arrived like blue martinis.
I am learning the steps to a foreign song:
her mind was torpedo,
and her body was storm,
a kind of Wow.
All we want is a metropolis of Sundays,
an empire of hand-holding and park benches?
She says, 'Leave it all up to me.'
Major Jackson
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