A Parisian boy with lithe legs and androgyne hips swivels them and flicks an errant black curl from his eyes like ashes from a cigarette held in the lips of some Godardian sweetheart. The soft pinkish mouth, the words like smoke rings, the dance: the step right, the step left, the twirl of a finger, arms akimbo, the turn.

Q: If you could create one thing, and put it in one place anywhere, what and where?

A: I'd spawn an unfathomable
and vengeful desire,
massive and immobile,
to screw into my temples
and light up the black space
between my ears.

I found your stories:

I found your mother and your daddy,
your something and your nothing,
your good sex and your good sex

I found your grand cities,
your flashes of molasses country life

I found the love you bring.

I found your stories,
shaking, frost-bit and shivering.
I’ll take all these that you have buried--
This ain’t your treasure now.