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Jane Vincent Taylor
My therapist says I have a habit
of running away like a rabbit at dusk.
Pink Lizard Lounge. Three women
licking salt from margarita rims. I’m
one of them. By the time they tipsy
out the door I’m gone, tossing in the bed
at El Ferrol, El Ferrol: a burning lantern,
fire in a sack, a bluff.
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