|
{to charlotte} james wilk In an antiquarian book shop, the kind where you ask for Lowell and they hand you James Russell and where Ai is the feminine nominative plural of the in Greek, you let me finger-fuck you off in a dusty, dim-lit corner hidden by a spavined shelf of literature in translation. And somewhere, deep inside its yellowed pages, your musk still lingers in The Sorrows of Young Werther. |
