In an antiquarian book shop,
the kind where you ask for Lowell
and they hand you James Russell
and where Ai is the feminine
nominative plural of the in Greek,
you let me finger-fuck you off
in a dusty, dim-lit corner hidden
by a spavined shelf of literature in translation.
And somewhere, deep inside
its yellowed pages, your musk still lingers
in The Sorrows of Young Werther.