ll we want is to succumb to a single kissthat will contain us like a marathonwith no finish line, and if so, that we landlike newspapers before sunrise, halcyonmornings arrived like blue martinis. I amlearning the steps to a foreign song: her mind was torpedo, and her body was storm,a kind of Wow. All we want is a metropolisof Sundays, an empire of hand-holdingand park benches? She says, "Leave it all up to me.
-Major Jackson
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