The candle flickers
as I read Little Birds,
glut myself on the overzealous Baron at the Grand Hotel with the girls,
the young confessor who dreamed of making love to vicunas,
poor Miguel, frightened of twat, craving cock,
the tentative Basque, edging along Viviane’s whisper, “just the tip,”
threesomes, voyeurism, strapped women, latent man-love, jealousy, and
so. much. fucking–
even queefs, Anaïs made sexy.
Somewhere between “Please wash a little less,”
and “the last drop of pleasure,”
the candle topples.
As you heft me over your shoulder,
I gaze down at my floor
and think I may get some