She wants you to think I’m the horrible
pollution in this city: fumes of my spinster’s
muffler. Though, she’s right in this: I do want
to fill up your lungs and the space in between
your legs. Never mind her bristling brand of spit-
shine when my hands shudder to be stars under
your telescopic gaze. Please have a seat again.
Who cares about wearing white gloves to bury
the milk of youth and eagerness and untapped
desire? Toss the Dalloway off and into the street
like the world has done to me. Let’s live on periphery,
make our degenerate music. And know that if
you walk away right now these hands are more like
to be dying stars, heat folding in on heat until shadow.