The sheets are silk and

ruined. Every bulb turned

to bright. Each small scarf

has its own atmosphere. Every

face gathered into a bouquet.

Here he comes, galloping

to the window, somersaulting

through. Each of his gorgeous

lives. Every hanging chandelier.

The audience coos. The bartender

waits for you to stop talking.

All the planets waiting in a line,

down the hallway, outside the black

door, waiting for their turn.