You

are fresh, wet beads of
pomegranate on the table.
Candied sheets of want in every slit-
every space in the city holds
you, your steel and the old tunes.
All the coins lying quiet
in the empty pool. My love is spitting and
ebbing against broad daylight.
The greatest,
the sum of my evenings, a lilac cocktail
stuck in a greased gut,
thread piercing a difficult space.
You are the white hotel lamp atop
the glass nightstand.
A blank hum wraps the room with
light, then I am asleep.

© The Iron Sister