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The women you are accustomed to.

wearing that same black dress, their lips and asses tight, their bronzed hair set in perfect place; these women gathered in my dream to talk their usual talk, their conversation spiked with the names of avenues in France. and when i asked them what the hell, they shook their marble heads and walked erect out of my sleep, back into a town which knows all there is to know about the cold outside, while i relaxed and thought of you, your burning blood, your dancing tongue.
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Author:Clifton, Lucille
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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Next Article:The blindness desired.

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