The perfect place for a boy to die: a city of bridges and stairs — you said this when we met
so I replied You wouldn’t talk your shit in French if you could dance. We were both naked,
in the grocery-green enormity of the floating bath house on 14th street, naked but
for those cloths of echinacea petals they give you and right there, naked, we danced. We
.
danced through the vocoder howl of the noontime siren; we danced beneath the retired
towl of the City’s foremost star-smith, winsome Cape Hat (he star lance car danced
the clock tower in a lone afternoon); we danced layers of shale and hundred span
over the hot spring aquifer, where the abandoned galleon floats motionless, its hull
.
full of horses divinely diseased, too flimsy to ride; we danced like we’d swirl our ice with
a pistol; we danced and the black cat of yesteryear fell to a panic. We danced you took
me home. A clean light bathed us in the blue kitchen as we spat in a pot until pasta
was done. You showed me your statue of god, onyx slicked with olive oil. You pulled me
.
through the kitchen, through a green door, and into a wide room, said I had them move out
everything except the bed, and I was busy looking into your eyes, at you undoing your hair
then your shirt, but all that lay on the floor, I saw, was a spread of weathered and smooth
sedimentary rock;
.
This is the chandelier, from when I was young, the one I was telling you about
and you were shaking with the flowers in your hand you picked a pink petal
.
from the hair of my thigh and dropped it through a million years of stone.
