never sleeps, even when the body sleeps,

it angles over images and purrs,

incurious to deeper scrutiny,

whether vacant or in bloom—it demurs,

licking at your face at noon, as welcome

as a shriek that deadens in the middle

of a crowded room, or a suspicion

you shove to the back where pithy women

congregate to drink—they ogle you,

they know their lonely hearts on the wall

are somehow your fault (though you are obtuse,

basking like a cat on the window sill—

inert, an overheated ingénue,

still able to fool a critic or two).