Sleeping at The Plaza

There were tiny hounds sniffing out their gilded cages. Fireplaces 
chaste, unlit and beds soft as the pears I ate from palms outstreched. 
The hem of my dress was wet from the fountain and finally it lay on
the floor like the slick blue skin of a fish. We danced silver as a
shiny hook. I heard them clap: red nails flashing smiles. One
misplaced kiss, one eye shut. The concierge bald and fat, cuddling 
his little pink prick. The elevator stuck. The city was singing. 
Someone was taking pictures. My legs splintered at the hips, and 
that night New York wrecked and swelled inside me. A beautiful girl 
is a great storm, slapped around by the hands of her own desire. 
She lifts up the green skirt of Central Park, wading twelve floors 
below, and wishes once more for coachmen and carriage: to be salt 
and tear in the horse’s eye, to dissolve beneath his blinders.