The solitary molar of a streetwalker 
whose body had gone unclaimed 
had a gold filling. 

After a long night swimming
In the dry dark of a book
I heard outside my window 

Today when I was walking 
I had a man tell me as he passed 
That I was a white bitch (he was white) 

In a light chocolatine room 
with blackout windows, 
a loud clock drowns in soft dawn’s

Feelings seem like made-up things, 
though I know they’re not.   
I don’t understand why they lead me

I wake up mornings snug in my bed-puppet.
Not the liveliest in my repertoire,
but wait, it gets better: next is my pants-puppet,

Catch! It’s a quarter, right? You got it? Good.
Now, pinch the flat between your first two fingers,
press hard against the milling with your thumb,

In the shadow
of the mountain
quarters click 

Our ménage à trois by candlelight—;
the various absurdities: black lace,
pink mules, a little-bo-peep teddy. 

Then he deflowers her, pulling away the greenery.
Then a blue vein thinning into a hollow.
Then it is the hollow between her neck and lower jaw.