W 177th & Broadway

All night you eyed the man I wanted to be;

my jaw flexed tight. Anger slipped into

desire. Easily he would rise. Easily you would

disperse, pleasure made into light:

what you want under him,

I put on to amuse—I, your worked

supplicant. Yes, love is looking away.

My desire greened in your dismissal. Was

technicolor and twilight-made and never

turning off. The city air hung humid

above our charade. What need I could fill:

to transubstantiate, to unravel?