Soured breath the off-gassing 

Of a painter’s patchouli kisses 

Punctuated by the slinking cadence 

Of ocelot prances on mustard shag 

 

The mirror on the floor a friend 

Scrying visions between sordid lines

Of scattered China blips

The stuff of a woman’s slipping secrets 

 

Citrine knuckles lift soot to honeyed eyes

Gravel scraping up the throat 

To profess countless nonchalances 

And here and there 

 

                                            a song

 

Tasting the fame on titans’ lips 

Holds her over for a while 

Breaking prying talkshow glances 

Surely, her time must come