On Stephen Dwoskin’s Dirty, or How I Know I Am Not Ready to Write a Poem About You

Epileptic light reveals everything in the glitchy darkness, that itch of flash exposed—it is pixelated as I see it, the sound shut off so they are glancing at each other with silent fists and open palms, and I put on a song where the vocalist’s voice is as scratchy as the two girls on my screen, and I think about the uncurtained expanse of window behind my sofa and wonder who watched when we lay here, our faces ground into one another’s cunts and what the light was like upon our...

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