If they’d told me to recapture
the rhododendron glaze narrowly,
or to chaperone the night’s
answer, I would have,
I could have, easily. But how to lure myself away
from my own body—that I didn’t know.
me (the hedonist), then there was a blur
like persuasive wisteria. Where
was the accident to get me out? Body after
body—oversexed for nothing but a scrim,
a stir. I stretched into the instructions, the foreign
words (they licked my skin), stretched past
stretched further into their vestibules. Lucky grammar.
Honestly, I lived inside a ghost country,
caught up in a candied lunacy.
Caught like a cluster of bells.
Hear them winging it, making up
a step for absence amiss?
We were a figure for someone’s
apology or scandal, uncollected gifts, frays
to pray by, necks forming
an erotic choir. Two of us
shared a smoke, looked for a moment
to take a roadtrip, a deep-set scenario. (She talked
against the blue mock-shade
of the dressing room with its fabrics
and stretch of mesh). One
of many shes trying to find the right music
for her vintage jacket brooch.
Another stood in front of me, her hair
Like waxy fruit. We were nudes in a row
speckled with seed pearls. What flourishing
we thought we’d mastered, but I wanted anything
to replace gray elastic, the branches fluid
and poised at the window,
anything to lie in wait for me.