place where i gulp,
a tiny back room
somewhere distant and indistinct,
or a small house off a backroad &
cozy with little turkish rugs, crayon-colored furniture and things,
dollhouse-size, but alive,
flexing wide like a spongy sea creature
or lung. forming want.
[ ]
i try plying it with different tastes—tea, chorizo, avocado, nuts—
but nothing doing;
no more than opening and shutting windows
stalls the mount to heat frenzy and returning chill;
the gape stays still,
shadowed like Humphrey Bogart in a trenchcoat on some staircase
(stirring for a cigarette)
