at some fish-and-goose soirée) “…but I bet

your alabaster skin could sway a priest

into bed—though it breaks down, all of it,

eventually: this punch, this pickled beef,

that loud mongrel on the rug by the door

ripping the tassels with his teeth.” She winced

then turned to retrieve her hat from the floor—

and as she ascended the steps, I glimpsed

beneath her twirling dress a galaxy

spiraling about a white core. My heart

kept time with the thumping on the ceiling

after that– some drunk promoting his art

by fucking blindly in the dark, without

any Elizabethan caveats.