Merridawn Duckler

Girl of the Lower Forty-Eight   Burying my nose in the old sweatshirt smell again the lonely armpit of afternoon bar where whisky and I fought for the attention of that New York woman; soaked in her aroma of clean reason prim, drunk, authoritarian, alert, erect as I waved the prism of my glass to over-state: we’re the minority here,…

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