Scheherazade.

After Richard Siken

comes wave after wave after wave the derivative & harvest, the myrtle tops of sandstorms & milk glasses, apple, horse & song, list, listen, light leaks from the spaces between the bubbles — call it foam — tender pocket of yes yes yes call it flesh — eat tonight & you’ll still have to eat tomorrow, eat tonight & it still won’t be over — eat tonight: peaches bloom even in the dark, as wet as a girl — hands & feet, horse & song, the same hole bandaged over & over, not a wound but its absence — a sum of histories — the nights colliding like marbles, & if there is an end then it’s too dark to see, if there is an end then it’s too bright to see, hands folding, unfolding, & you, Scheherazade!, milky goddess of recursion, best DJ in the city, you spin records, spin heads, cross legs & cross deserts, & always pause just moments before he
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