name-calling

afternoons with hoarse voices and

a Creole look of

awe from the butter-swirled hands of '64 fall

jammes epidermis is all

at the corner zippers of women

like me remains with the folds of dresses/ with

with sequins woven out of

peacock's eyes wither

(he) pad you in thoughts of

near your gaze/ with

with the ills of the borrowed on purpose you throw

mechanically with hats of words then

you soak up the loves on the flashing lights

I stop/ check if you still remember

name/

(I) marquise of the times

Cyclops you call me

of no one/ the dazzle of gestures

black virgin wrists like a sleep

deep comfortable and without escape open

the 47th button of a dozen

stranger to us/ with preschool hands you jog the engagement in the

shrill scripts and ladies

unsightly fingers

(he) walnut body bypassed by

all the aristocratic moths/ kneeling

of mothballs I seek

on the streets Viennese meanings/ game

minor replaced by a tender palm hike/ with a novice tip

of your fingers

on the fear and hope of the other.