(best)

It was the mattress that night,
that night, that night:

consumed by the candy of hair and light
that night that night

it was the rhyme that
ate at him, the beauty

of her twinkling eye, where she winked
his shudders
and his pulsing trouser hose

frightened him from sleeping
or sand bagging his room from the tears that
the poets would weep for him

that night   that giddy
wing of black coarse no-light
cab call

no-fuck, no suck, just a blister
from kissing.

no hickey, no quicky

i wasn't ready, i was 'oping
that this would be the best night
that night that night

and it was. it was.

the cab was called, i recall before midnight
which i say

is great- it is sublime, two thumbs
kissing the upwards draft of cold air
she left behind

that night: that night,

we played rumi,
i left my dignity with games, im not sure im
the best for what the stars foretold
they don't have heart, mine was beating
out of my throat, and you could hear
it in my murmured words -
coquettish, lassoed
to little flakes
of love.

i don't how to finish this,
there are vowels and other sound outs
i could use, i could plunge my mind
into the thinking of a goldfish.

think 'i don't know how to fish...this?';
and the weeds are still growing
and the cards are on the wood shelf
by the books and the purse of my
childhood where i am standing
in cardboard clothes and am
the roy orbison of whatever night that
would have been.

i think i want to keep thinking of that night,
that night, that fucking night
and idolise it,
bank it and bank the interest i
fucking hate myself with,
will love be mine
will it?

i really suck at pinball, that's what i know
the ball just goes down between the little flippers
and i know it will:

that's my hope right there. bottled.

and bleak.