Gold hums upon the table its bee-worthy drone.
No need to squint
till the light adjusts, the teller’s robe
hiked to show a pair of fine legs,
unscarred as yet by the demanding suitors.
The voice works through mercy’s octave,
describing the chandelier’s rich prison,
blue flames spittling the loops, ice thrown
in diamond-shapes on the eye’s cast-off measure.
A dying hand grabs at a passing ankle.
The words globed in melancholy bubbles,
the brinksmanship of every harlequin
made foolish by a false love.
Death drums upon the table his one-note song.