Torch
The
beat is pre-war, four to the bar
for thirty-six, some scene
you danced-to Millennium night,
the seconds padding softly
across the clock face, then
midnight’s starry catapult
into black.
In
cheetah stilettos, her red slit-dress just
skewed in the tempo, she
waits, attentive
to your fabled isolation,
imagining
with what restless delight
you will discover her.
And
you will be as you were meant to be,
and
your house will be, and your child will be,
and outside the house the
grassy stripes
the mower makes, and the
seconds, padding softly
across the clock face.
She booked an island beyond
the shipping-lanes,
believing you would come.
Because you are late, she
makes herself ready
in forgiveness, in cheetah
stilettos, vogueing
the vibe snakey-snakey, her
tribal
cut and blow.
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