Facing away from me,
against the wall,
in Wonder Woman red underwear,
her inane sexual warfare here subsists on
the consistency of the rain
insane with cognitive engravings of
poetry-written mascara. I hesitate confirming
my own vanity by telling you to show less
and make men know where your interests lie,
successes being rarely sufficient,
somewhere between here and not here
being only the opposite of your indifference,
your affliction,
guilty as it makes me
dangerous as it is
strange to think
that two cobalt-cold eyes could kill me
and look far ahead into the-
while biding their contemplation:
within them, there is full dissociation.
I looked into you
and kissed someone unfamiliar,
I held you
when you could not remember your name.
Who the hell is this
ageless stranger next to me,
disconnected by reddish-orange strands black
at the base and a smile often higher on the left side
from where she and I committed something
and became part of the story
or something like it
that I like better,
something dark
and light and beautiful
like Lucifer teaching a woman
to forgive herself without making a mistake, with
what’s remembered ages hence with a sigh
from one of her benefactors
that sees that I see more clearly than I,
crossing the mob without becoming crass
and am truthful when no one else knows.
How forceful is a mistake in Newtons,
how long does it take for trains heading northeast and northwest
to forget about each other?
And how often, for that matter,
does this cross her mind?
