crimson lights swimming in cocktail glasses, hors d’oeuvres
carved into roses, orange
poppies blooming in gin.
Guests swarm about, claws unretracted. Frauleins’
Men’s mouths are so wet from hunger,
their eyeteeth reflect my lips.
Their tongues are all sugared but yours.
You are not so young, nor so good-looking,
yet I listen only to you.
All the stories you tell me are knots.
How simple they seem at first!
But the more I try to untie them,
the more tightly they bind me to you.
Your humor is as black
as the leather on your back, but I know
it isn’t all guile. You mock the world
because you love it,
a love unrequited,
In dreams, there are no transitions, only
ellipses, splices in film. I
am alone with you.
I sit on your lap in your black leather chair,
my white slip fluttering, flag
You hold out a drug,
a circling blue, flickering light, a cold kind of blue,
like a star.
This urgency sears through my veins—
emergency happiness—sweating and cold—
peels off my clothes—press my flesh to yours
as though I am fevered, and you are a pane
of glass. My bones
seem to dissolve. Into your body
I fall, and sleep. My dreams