We are not supposed to be here
Trent whispers on the stairs.
The Hendricks Martini, the rye Old Fashioned
are other people’s drinks; the burgundy
air under the Japanese maples—

Like dogs for hours they trained us with trays:
A real bell chiming once means book-it
to the hall of on-loan Grecian statues, where donors gather
to admire the moony, hand-made asses,
some of them chipped, others immaculate broken-
off dicks.
That is door one.

Door two leads outside. To a tidal pond,
where the water shines brightest where it’s darkest,
as in a Dutch painting.
There is honesty in darkness

impossible in light.
There’s a rococo footbridge hard at work
holding up some dumb illusion,
and we clock out
and cross under its lamps

that stretch us like taffy
to twice our size and it hurts
to change—

All we need’s the right mix of shit.
I’ll take a beer and more K
while the cats are away, I hear Trent say.
Whatever happened to him?

We all meet at the water later
and he tells us ‘the tide brings back bodies sometimes’
and he hands me the moon
in the grooved tip of a key saying quick!
quick! The British are coming!

of that old feeling of being
in love, such a rusty
feeling, rusty,

functionless
toy. In odd

sequential dreams
I can still love.
Love in the old way.

Here is a sweet lozenge.
Here is some broth,

on whose surface
I have floated
edible flowers.

I can feel the old feeling
where I used to feel it,

in my chest. 
In the dream I feel it,
but when I wake

the feeling is gone.
There isn’t a word

for the feeling that replaces it.
Not numbness or emptiness.
It is a nameless feeling.

Racy in its own way.
A racy new toy.