November Arc, Barcelona 2003
she wear th fat belt
she meet my eyelid
she draw her butt cheek line
so dark & close to my own dead & gone edge
she hold th crowd back
she keep a friend cool
she trigger-happy looker
wearing my own stolen heart of gold
–on cuff-linked sleeves, dear–
surrender, dear eye– do remember, my eye–
think again, sink again, try again, memory!
she sit on blow clean slate
she squeeze my mem’ry gland
she march all night on lace-white friends
all grown so old before our time!
she foreign spectate– or
correspond to speculate address!
(in my mind’s eye only–
argue come to blows again?)