Just then, encountering my ruddy face
in the grand piano's cold black craquelure,
it conjured the jack-o'-lantern moon
dipping up over the roofs of the Tenderloin.

Only when I have done with the myths—
the inner spill that triggers us to flame,
breasts so sensitive a moment's touch
will call down fever; the dark sea-lane

between limbic squall and the heart's harbour—
will I picture you, just beyond innocence,
lying stripped by a thrown-wide window,
letting the cool breeze covet your ardour.