red colors draped across what might otherwise
be white, or even blue, as she pulls the lever,
totes her failures.
Skin-tight things don't fit her easily,
the inanimate wraps around the animate as if the
body were dead but stretched, and
the entanglement itself the living thing.
She's worn braver expressions than this,
burning longing hidden by affected longing,
the world's a cocktail lounge, and
she's merely a player, with a bucket of coins.
She's got Vegas eyes, but anyone with enough
mascara has Vegas eyes; She whispers something, and then horse laughs, but that
laugh sounds wounded, as if she's
long past pain and moving into torsion.