The gift shrank as rumor kept the hour,
from treasure chest to figful basket.
A bolt shot back, strange booty
hurting the eyes, encircling the loaded wrists,
a swim of silks bleeding as they slid
from top to bottom, a boozer’s
ballast at last made good.
A tidying hand ruined the miraculous
mood: the mirror was deliberately
skewed, any explanation exposed seduction’s
greasy gears, Romeo borne back and
ravished by his morbid Juliet.
A skill requiring mirrors and rented rooms,
oxygen enough to feel Incan,
to gasp a plateau’s arrival.
Fishnet and assassin’s moon,
pinning the weakest with a blend
of charm and old-fashioned lust,
tomboy skeleton to dress the lady,
to burp a fine remorse of feeling,
a groper’s bloom.