Late autumn afternoon 2012,

shadowbirds on white gold--Mayan

rascality in the air.

A Polish starlet wearing a Twenties

cloche hat, detonated an all nighter at

our door.

Her fur coat & dress also shared cocktails

with Fitzgerald, as she shook a bouquet

of roses at blind gossip columns.

Our door opened to makeup's fidelity to

rawness, alcohol's turbulent fumage

here & there about her person.

Was made to understand that her lover

was inside, that beyond me was her

very reason.

The silk linings of bat wings spilled out

this address, what was stated to the

contrary was only absorbed by unfocused

determination.

The American dross of Polish

bereavement spoke in fits, hexed fluency.

An nonnegotiable wait volunteered her,

her lover was bound to come out, as

authorities were bound not to be called.

From the second floor window, all things

shiny converged on her with gruff

frequencies & thickening uniforms.

Police stood beside her & set in, as she

got into schoolgirl trouble.

By the time medics took over she was

submerging her private island.

There she was, being strapped to a

pristine white stretcher--her cloche hat

tipping itself.

Her doomed outfit secured like *** roast,

save for the bouquet of roses that hung

out & clotted from her right hand.

As the stretcher popped up it was like

her soul was going to leave her body,

rose petals struggle-strewn across it.