I find myself
disgusted with myself
for not finding you
disgusting as a Cyclops.

Your eyelash
distracts me, yes, as do your
breasts, mascara, lips, hips
& fishnets.

Blindfolded, you
could pass for Greta
Garbo & this is
how we go out.

I tell the waiter
you’re sensitive
to candles. Afterwards we
stroll along the White

Cliffs of Dover
or someshit. The moon
& sea & your feet all
appear reachable

yet out-of-reach
due to your lack of depth
perception. You clasp my hand
& lead us to the precipice

& ask about
the expanse distancing us
from the breaking tide.
Your sandals

are missing. The wind
unbuttons your blouse. The
shared energy of a Ouija board
tilts us forward.

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SCOTT ALEXANDER JONES is the author of a chapbook of poetry: "One Day There Will Be Nothing to Show That We Were Ever Here" (Bedouin Books, 2009). He holds an MFA from The University of Montana, and in the fall of 2009 he was Writer-in-Residence at The Montana Artists Refuge. His poems have appeared most recently in: The Roanoke Review, Third Coast, Tribeca Poetry Review, Phoebe, and Redivider. Currently residing in Wellington, New Zealand, he is co-founder of Zerø Ducats, a literary journal assembled entirely from stolen materials, and he releases music as Surgery in the Attic.

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