Your hair shakes
with a debt of stars.

City night can't
pass blue, and the

coin cloak moon
escapes its room

with a key made
from a rose thorn.

You lay into the bed
clad in pink silk,

black lace, your
skin fair as a page.

There is a breeze
that sounds like rain.

I dare to read your
emissary shoulder

& become dizzy,
my breath broken

among my teeth.
You could be made

of engraved silver
and I would not

be more speechless
or more delicate.

Shake the stars
from your hair,

so that a midnight
might curl there.

Light the little candles
bright as thighs

and join me here
by the window

sipping your whiskey
and watching clouds

chase a truant moon
towards the gigantic

green lacuna of
Grant circle.