From Open Window

We’re sitting at the open window when you had me the pistol and say
                         “pick one.”

By the cold twilight of your eyes, my own doe-like morning dews focus hawk-like on the whites of my thighs
less dimpled and hideous in the amber light than I remember,
..’ruebenesque’ I recall somebody saying,
proof once of wealth…

       “There’s plenty of women in this world with tits and ass” you tell me,
coaxing my fingers around your cold metal
               “it’s up to you to choose to be more.”

                   I can tell by the tattoos on your wrist that you’re serious.

Below us on Broadway the flood’s begun its retreat,
Piercings and leggings washing out into the Sound
as if as pulled by the moon as the hammer in my hand:
idle seeds inside my gut.

           From above
                she’s easy to spot -
Face down on the ground and wailing contritions;
cursing a name in the same breath that asks for its forgiveness,
short skirt riding just below her cresting wave.

Making whimsical excuse for a cold calculation,
Her slim figure kicks pirouettes across the sidewalk;
A tantalizing tantrum that entrances even me.

I want to go to her,

          And I turn to you to say as much.

         In the pale blue of our reflection, we’re celestial:
features blurred and overlapping,
       swirling gasses,
          dead light:

“That’s good,” you say,

      “now let’s work on your aim.”