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It's rather hip,
all of it.
Zeppelin beneath your fingers,
Kubrick in the vcr,
and sticky upstairs apartment heat
between our skin.
The way you can play "Blackbird" on your steel string,
and I recite my wannabe beat poetry
from my upside down curl,
peering up at you
through the space between the guitar and your arm.
The way my mind stays put when we kiss
and our fingers know the rhythm
like the words were already written.
The way the hardware store sign across the street
blinks on and off
like a big-city, all-night show girls ad
in neon pink
and reflects through the blinds
onto the floor
in a film noir puddle.
Above the couch is some sophisticated black and white photograph,
and on the couch we make up a record store post card.
A dim composition in melting light.
JOANNA HOROWITZ
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