The last he saw her -- flimsy blouse and dirty feet, a little drunk and nails bit broken, speaking loose, and her heroin boyfriend out and in
in Amsterdam -- had she known that she was getting this, into the weatherbeating of steetwind, life as only suddenness, a joy of coming high
and welcoming old classmates prim from the States as though she spilled from the beatitude of orgasmic up-all-night collapse
the liver over-exercised, surmising rightly she'd be now long dead, an object of anecdote, a generational footnote.
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