Notes For Further Study
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Posted:Jul 3, 2018 2:23 pm
Last Updated:Jul 3, 2018 2:23 pm
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You are a nobody until another man leaves a note under your wiper: I like your hair, clothes, car—call me! Late May, I brush pink Crepe Myrtle blossoms from the hood of my car. Again spring factors into our fever. Would this affair leave any room for error? What if I only want him to hum me a lullaby. To rest in the nets of our own preferences. I think of women I’ve loved who, near the end, made love to me solely for the endorphins. Praise be to those bodies lit with magic. I pulse my wipers, sweep away pollen from the windshield glass to allow the radar detector to detect. In the prim light of spring I drive home alone along the river’s tight curves where it bends like handwritten words. On the radio, a foreign love song some men sing to rise.
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