i lie back on my red coverlet and contemplate

the paintings of seascapes we won't be seeing in the Louvre.

the miniatures of the infamous Van Blarenberghe brothers.

no rented wooden boats in the Jardin de Tuileries

though this is not about a particular lover or a particular city.

even i am less a woman than a ball of mercury breaking

into forty pieces of silver.

there was talk of Prague, the Klub Cleopatra, that bar called

the Marquis de Sade. as if poetry lies there on a gold settee

smoking a black cigarette in a red holder.

green dress. that Van Gogh green, the color of his pool tables.

the ceiling too is green, and the absinthe we won't be sipping.

the unmade love in unmade beds. small, oversensitive breasts.

Americans always think it's elsewhere. believe

in transmutative sex. i did, when a girl, scrutinizing

my queendom, a colony of fire ants, their thoraxes

gleaming like scoured copper.