Swallowed by blood-red vinyl of the hotel lounge,
I drain the last of a grasshopper—my first cocktail,
ever. You loosen your tie. Dad, glare at headlines

Honor, and excellence, and transcendent best,
I was the laurels I denominated:
diadem and queen and diadem’s bearer.

Stumbling midnight tipsy in Jackson’s studio,
who knocked black paint over into tomorrow
and throbbing rainbows of our morning after?

Once upon a time a girl named December Thought
sat alone at the top of a tree of frosted glass
where she brooded over cigarettes and coffee,

The dim prospects from this window make me ask
if should I hold you in the half-light—when morning

In the first place they would sustain themselves
on warm, sugary drink, as they imagine herons
and kingfishers do—confusing bodily elegance.

One would give emeralds
for what was not bought from the pear man
who stood in hot, blank sunlight

The sun is fierce over the slum of Kibera
and the iron roofs wrinkle into eyelids
sleepily tilting over damp mud walls.

One can’t work
by lime light.
A bowl full

Slip is one
law of crash
among dozens.