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Randolph Pfaff

Red Shoe Diaries

 

 

You, so awkward sexy,

tall and skinny

in jean shorts.

Everything I love

about America.

How you held me

in your hand

and, I don’t know, 

made shadow puppets

with the other.

Made me ask 

Am I dexterous? 

Pain looks better 

on your face.

On me, it’s just

indulgent.

Like summer storms,

like the erotic

emptiness of a fall

from outer space,

like foreboding gusts

of wind chime anarchy.

As the rain began falling,

houses and cars

were lifted by the vortex

to sightseeing heights.

We could look anywhere

from way up there,

and the last thing

I remember

before your skin and 

hands and tongue

were everywhere,

was spotting two ladies

in the distance,

dressed exactly alike.

They were twins.

They were girlfriends.

They were nuns.

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