At Ferlinghetti’s Coney Island

Glen Armstrong

She falls and brushes the dust
from her blue jeans,

preemptively
open at the knee.

Denim blinks; bare skin sees.
She understands the bull’s-eye,

its tissue paper heart.
She is easy

on the third eye,
a whirling astral beauty.

She comes as she pleases
through the forehead’s

collapsible mouse door.

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