You people are all gathered, there
like cloth, or drifts of snow, and sit

commanded, on slow-moving
mounts: white elephants, or rocs

or tigers: tip to ruby tip the monsters
of an empire. While the haunch

of each grinds like a knife
along the whetstone crowd;

implies the violence of your
coats, your drifting

words and songs played low
on black guitars, I watch

and scurry through the allies
backstreets, routes

I know to avoid the barricades
so I can be ahead of you

to see you come, your shoulders
white, your breasts

flutter like wings. I watch
the corners of my mouth pinned down

like tents, to hold off every drop
of you