Port of Call
Money floats down from the ceiling.
Fingers laugh behind the walls.
Alabaster and perfume, surcingle
and tympani. There are zoo animals
larger than these thick-skinned creatures
to whom I offer my hat with champagne.
As civilized as the next. And there are
always, lobsters to be walked
at the end of a pale blue satin ribbon.
A block in two hours, pausing for wine
and water, a day-old croissant.
Marveling at the open mouths,
the frantic handkerchiefs. This,
of course, is exercise as the Greeks
intended. In the adjacent arrondissement
a massive Renaissance bed lies
between us, whoever you are. Rumpled
sheets and bolster pillows landscaping
the silk horizon. Whats more,
those frames I mentioned, hesitate
with a consumptive ecstasy.
I would not say they hover
but it is once again morning
and my homard and I are thirsty.
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