There are places asking
if you are a prayer or a radio receiver,
this one holds a fire in its center
running aground in red stripes.
He says light never comes to light.
She says her writing is about thirst.
Rooms hang in the Parisian air
like Babylon gardens,
anonymous rooms of fresh white linen,
waxing, waning.
He believes beauty remains unseen
She thinks there’s a double,
triple bottom to everything.
He orders a blue sky, some eggs
and wine, obtains kisses.
She, darker, reports a loss,
a man offering, kindly,
a ghost.
Her high heels lie black on the floor
like a pair of shoes beside a bed.

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