at night by the chops a front is
in a duplex’s mirrored bath stall
as spirals plunging to negative infinity
not the Mozambique civil war of 1977
intact as a phantom blue stone
or rather will she be cool and enjoy
their plantings on a third floor
her old beat up Shakespeare in a teal edition

the auburn sprig or crimson point patches

the lily pond variety of goldenrods and asters

paced to a ghosting flare slobbered
across a sports field like vodka and dew
the anyone cement of hotel classics
and folly tonguing in a night shadow

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)