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.