I want you in the backseat of a car
all flushed and open
but we won't talk about that.
I would love
to bed you
in daylight,
your supposed
fears lofted by the wind
like dandelion fuzz--
but
why don't we
just sit here, instead,
in this stale room
that stinks of cigarettes
and my lurid desires
and discuss Coleridge, Keats
and your mother
burying the obvious
in dusty tombs?
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