Lauren Levato


Curtain Kiss

It's a shotgun order,
a highly collapsible blue
                      lost in a tinsel-town room.

Grandma's pincurls pluck you
against a green wall, the acrylic
that suspends the cerambycid.

The way I asked you to drown.

                      The banner is splayed across the lobby.
                      There's me    behind the velvet ropes.


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