sitting, now, on the other side
and looking back
through the blue-green sheen
of November in Love, I am
unhinged and wet, the wine running
deep rosé over my virgin
hands, my soiled head.
he would come to me
out of the rain, out of the dark,
shaking mythos from the curling damp
parts, smiling like fiction,
talking to me (in my head), asking: how
are you? how does it feel
to be seen?
the last pavilion 