“Let’s pretend to be French Impressionists,” you said. So we

trespassed;

We drank wine from an emptied bottle of seltzer. We kissed red,

Jolly Rancher

Kisses in a crowded bar playing bluegrass, and afterwards,

pressed against

The stairs of Abyssinia, beneath waves of Waterloo Sunset:

Only later, lying on the high pile rug in my apartment, would I

Dare to trace my fingers along the towered eaves of your pagoda

Spine, step over your black lace bra strap, ascend

each vertebra,

Wrap my hand around the base of your warm neck, and futilely

Attempt to decode secret messages from the buzzing hums

Inside your brain stem. We stole thirty minutes

of what could possibly

be called sleep,

but it struck me more like a pastiche:

a furiously dashed

oil-streak flashback

dipped in lightning.

Thursday came in an instant.

I still don’t know

How we made it to the subway

in time for work.