I like its look.
I lick the evening, too.

He’s princely when he’s here, our Gilgamesh,
but soon we will be leaving him for good.

who can
give these gifts back: Greek horses— Greek hatred

       as the huge fish in one shimmering bound clears
the vault, eludes
grasp.

     Jimmy was a cowboy
       too small to live;

He is strewn around her on the bedroom floor
in yards of sequined silk and padded bras.

Dear Nobody,
                       We are the hands she left—
three fingers wire-bound and strapped

Everywhere I walk, he is cat fur,
orange peel beneath my tongue: a tincture
of needles, the taste of liver salving

We are in the painting
without disturbing the painting,

Perfectly composed and colorless,
it mocks what it is not.