high times this evening, dollar paints and wine
tattoo my coat of arms upon your breast
expose this sparing spot for our houseguest
lay fruits de mer on ice � tongues touch the brine �
shrimp sit in crystal, play the concubine
our summer house��������he saw how you sundressed
the slip of strap let down (for him?)��������Celeste
he seeks you now in grape, the muscadine
and loses you beneath the pigeonwings
that shade the streets and strains of mandolins
he�ll miss the idle way you tip your hips
the way you never think to draw latchstrings
or how you curl up nights between dustbins
ear to the ground, walls pressed to fingertips




� 2003 by PJ Nights
previously published at ERWA