About midnight we came to the bar

where graffiti octopused

in mauve. In the air the scent

of defeat, like burnt cypresses

or moldy saffrons. The bartender

winked and guided us

to where light heaped isinglass.

 

I unbuttoned my coat, overused

like a face, and you slid onto the couch.

I would conquer this flesh and journey

to you, a touch away,

before the night left me short

of myself. But the table between us rose,

a peak, above which your eyes

pulled at my gravity.

 

Nobody talked to us. A saxophone wept.

 

Later on, I lay awake

in the cold bedroom, heard you bathe,

as if in the sea.