Bursts of tissue paper and nerves,

I lean over and hope you will stay awhile in the moments. 

I want to be close, if not attached, 

while the party goes on outside:

popcorn on the floor,

a tin mug crying with cool,

a booth dark with body oil.

Here relief tightens, 

and Gold Dust Woman presses us closer

than the Hennessy, because we’ve

waited til week’s end to bicker and sidle

to see if circumstantial romance

can warm and spread, bask us like snakes 

on the rock of punishment, rather than what we are:

worms in the eye of love.

There’s one way to find out. 

---

The long week told in your wrung shirt.

Dust of the city on your lips.

Powder in creases. Verge of wild.

The thick, human smell we share—

it’s here and now, if ever we dare.