Concave...theatre of the absurd.   Like a heat wave...Eighth Street and Twenty-Third.   Feeling unframed...dripping down the Chelsea steps.   Tasting your name crushed up against my lips   in the cool, blue half-light of the car-park lamplight.      Strange pull...the tyranny of the divine.   Cool and painful shivers up and down my spine.   A new distraction...bumping up against the dark.   In fits of passion...twisting like Joan of Arc   in the white-hot pure flame of a wide-eyed clear haze.      You're sloppy deep in throught   but there's so much nothing to do.   Why don't we go get lost   in the afternoon?      And the sky struggles to be born,   all pink and liminal.   Bleeding, half alive, like an animal.   And you brush your chesnut hair   and smile wide as the sky,   like the concave of your eyes.   And the scent...upon your warm orange skin's glow...in the graveyard bedclothes.      Turn the lock on the door.   Pull the cord from the phone.