Issue 103, Summer 1987
Wrong shirt at Ocean Park—
what you want preps an elementary doxy
for dogmatic chasing.
I’ve sold my hair, bowed to the brogue
of dreams and agreed as a mermaid
would to walk on knives.
Good dagger be good to me.
I get into the elevator at your feet.
I and the thousand souls of I.
My imagined heart is a china aster,
a dime on the staircase of the Metropolitan.
A woman’s fragrance revolves in the lift