I. We're melted, side and side, some ambiguous potion lodged between faultless hips. I'd like to sketch her lashes there.. as if martyred charcoal could compare. Lace and politics may stroke her soul, as we sip from this disposable Grail, the fountain of youth for one small town. She combs her hair while no one looks, some distant maternal dialect hushes me well.. As if her eyes would crash with the tide. as if her limbs, those porcelain things would bend at March, a crocus fiend regime.. We'll be dreaming by two, if these bottles provide, and still I'll be there, memorizing your profile. II. She is muted in the pink blanket with white clovers that smells of vodka and peopled air. Existence is stark and stale as bread crumbs lowered in rank to cardinal rejection. Shit-slick priesthood. She is made of soap and air-bubble buoyancy, the silver of a dove glittering on the contours of her whittled collarbone.. I want her to drag me into the kitchen where she experiments in cinnamon and Tchaikovsky While I'm anchored in linoleum seeping cold into my cheeks. No song is sweeter than her erratic pitch, crooning to a bluebird's funeral. Dandelion shells in her hair. I muffle myself in someone else's cigarette ash, desperate for verse. She is radiant with renewal. III. She has the frame of a sparrow and can position herself gracefully between piles of listless bodies, heavy and stoned with denial; A myth! how else did she fit those tiny legs into commercial fishnet? And it must be compulsory to watch you sleep, your serene untwitching lips and angled limbs under threadbare sheets and angled walls with sleep graffiti; the dizzysweet mumbles half-lidded and nearly asleep when you murmer languidly and ask my views on abortion; It is a Marijuana Saturday but you are airborne; they are stabbing cigarettes against the walls and the lights go out; silently you pull back your hair and I sigh. IV. Sleeping. You're always sleeping. Dazed with fragrances, you're sifting white fingers through the smooth forestry of dyed red hair; so red, in fact, it stains your hands for weeks. and when I transfer you to paper you squirm and drift and fall through the lines, dissipating martyr of beauty. Had I not seen you shiver? on cold nights, the vacuum of a moon soaking up your light, while my eyes my were transfixed onto the unpressed folds of your blouse, the milky wrinkles, soaked in unbruised idealism? you live simply, and dream of being immortal, armed with a cheap guitar. (The mother in me objects.) Capturing you in words was impossible. I could not read your eyelids in sleep. V. You get your drinks for free, wearing a limp, tattered dress and no bra, and with a sweet naive tilt of the head, you guess they must have noticed the rosewater on your wrists and that you always talks in mumbles. Oh, you believe in everything. Why brood on deadstill May nights when we can lie on grass, a million shades of earth drunk on sky and locate a single haggard star, your form of salvation? The moon's a dandelion sheen reflecting gold cross the pallor of your neck. You didn't even notice, and after the alcoholic loudness subsides you'll still be thumbing the grass; sighing. In exactly one hour the politics will dissapear. we'll collaspe into dreamless sleep as they share a smoke with the moon. You get your drinks for free. my belly stings with misplacement.