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{gala & salvadore} pj nights she started a story she was sure she could finish one of delirious phenomena and a deep fishing hole she wore a jacquard coat and a white top hat he was in the kitchen stirring up a borscht under puffs of cotton blackening into thunder clouds—after red beets, a morning’s tortuous toilette where he ripped a tail of sheeting artfully cut at the corner— cut higher to show a black high rise of hair, and higher to show a nipple, blacker than lamp black, blacker than the black of last nights’ dream where he threw her into the sea faire crever she might expire from the heat both of them lobsters in the pot who rise like Lazarus semi-erect against an immense lyre william tell shoots sea urchins from our heads watches melting |
