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Stubbed-out cigarettes & the Ramones playing loud at 2 a.m. on a stereo
that the guy you’re with paid for by flipping burgers all summer & it
has the best speakers he wastes so much time telling you how great
these speakers are & you are annoyed you are like Take my clothes off
but you don’t say it out loud because christ isn’t it obvious and then
finally he falls silent & through the open window you smell the first
roses beginning to open & the night air is thick & who thought
to plant rosebushes outside this yellow-brick rattrap but now
suddenly the overhead light starts to blink the way it does because
probably the building is shortly destined to catch on fire though you
forget to worry & the Ramones fall silent & you can hear the first
sparrows waking up & your hands are clammy & your breath comes
fast & skin is such an awkward strange thing maybe you’ve never
noticed skin before what about breathing was there ever anything so
beautiful as breathing & eyes how can eyes shout you had no idea
four hands clutching & this fear that is also recklessness & outside
the sparrows the roses & inside a coal heats and glows it is hell it is
wonder it is clamor it is glory
Copyright 2023 Dawn Potter
Dawn Potter is the author or editor of nine books of prose and poetry–most recently, the poetry collection Accidental Hymn. Her memoir, Tracing Paradise: Two Years in Harmony with John Milton, won the 2010 Maine Literary Award in Nonfiction. She lives in Portland, Maine, with her husband, the photographer Thomas Birtwistle.

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Wow. This poem gave me flashbacks. Literally.
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seems so long ago…but I can smell the roses
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Yes, a very sensual poem
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Wow. I recently had a conversation about the Molly Bloom chapter in Ulysses with a mutual friend of ours, Dawn, and wow– this is right there.
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