It is the masculine way she lifts
with two crooked fingers
that makes me certain
New York is not safe for art
In bed with a cigarette
clutching the neck of love
it is possible to feel
positively canopied in roses...
The heat is on in the mansion
The government has forgotten us
Don’t worry about the future
The arrangement of trinkets
light fixtures and towel racks
have stolen enough time
from the universe
I leave it to the senators...
the feeling behind a cup of tea
can be tempered with a fistful of shit
No to perfection