In Montmartre
in a Citroën,
she sees the beckon,

eyes a grove
of breasts and legs
on men in heels,

everything dislodged
at dusk. She sighs
apart, the moment

an abbreviation.
The low haze of bodies

toward night. Provoked
by these strange
strokes of lust: each

haughty hook
and click of shoe,
the trim and booty,

heat and complications,
she sees moons
with fragile centers.

And later,
when she lifts
a fork to eat

the wrack and stretch
of oyster belly,
taste its glide —

its sheen and suck
is all she wants
in her throat.