women’s thighs caught in the crayon deposits
of the walls.
gargoyles of notre dame,
prisoners of cardboard frames,
keep away indiscrete hands of readers from
t.s. eliot’s sleep.
her lips breath life into the cigarette
(five breaths for every smoke).
i study my heart
through the semiprecious transparency of beer.
in the corner: an old transistor radio,
the bust of pericles
(or is it sherlock holmes?),
a few lyrical contractions
scratched on her perfume bottle
by the needles of my pocket ekg machine
and the picture of a young
nichita.