[among the networks of overpasses
like swooping concrete ribbons,
transients perched in their
tarpaulin carpeted condos
watch the traffic and breathe the
thick-hot exhaust breeze
that's coming off of passing cars.]
i like a girl who
writes like my bruises,
who makes me think my thighs
flowerbeds
and my head a hot air balloon
tugging at my shoulders.
i like a girl who writes.
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