fiction 

i.

wrong guy on my mind 

while I’m looking in your eyes

stumbling now, I’m stuttering

about Jutta Koether and the curtains

I guess it was the palette that threw me 

into memory, mint green dawn on the linens - - 

 

- - you know, like a millennial shade of pearlescence that quotes the baroque

 

​

we spoke just a few words 

& they’re burnt into the night

there’s dawn on the linens,

can’t say what’s right

bicoastal flights just for this- -

things are strange in this light 

​

 

ii. 

burly & barrel-chested in the bride’s bed,

you make me do all the smiling for the 2 of us

 

triple sec, blood orange, sun yellow and flame;

distillations in cut-crystal dress the set 

 

in an Anthropologie afghan, at the edge of the city-

you’ve got soft lips & a sugar rush to the head

​

burly & barrel-chested in the bride’s bed,

you've got soft lips, your cheeks are turkey red.

​

iii. 

the air has a bourgeois clarity:

a crystalline serenity begot 

by early manufacturing investments in tech.

fascinatingly, the heiress sweetens her tea with stevia.

 

iv. 

my ego, this metafloral tchotzkie

which you now enjoy:

​

a Flower 

within a silver flower 

within a mirrored flower 

within a media flower. 

​

(It dwells in a glittering fortification). 

​

You unfold my petals for a moment to the softest, most silent place; …

before it closes again.