Eidolon
The romance of
that icy curb
(where a great new place
redeems the block)
is not a “drama” – no
climax, only a tableau
of hurrying hosts
who insensibly slow
for that girl and the guy:
he thirtyish, square,
but she, in fur,
textured thigh-high
stockings, kicky
stiletto boots, pearl studs, Poème,
has cheekbones to die for, sungold hair;
and as they cross
from limo to door
(the numinous lasts
that long), she smiles,
adept in mating with depressive ghosts.
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