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
double-churns
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.