show me fog-draped mountains

looming in the distance. the ebony

of dark water still and silent. she

is catching herself while she trips.

an old subway tunnel. rosewater

perfume. the sting of ozone on your

tongue. well-kneaded hills rising

with wisps of steam wafting like

belly dancers. the bouquet of petrichor.

she laughs and it echoes across the tile.

she smiles. her teeth are beacons. her

dress is knackered, her shoulders bare.

somewhere outside a bucket drum-

mer receives an impressive tip and

sixteenth-notes rebound across

broadway like children on an ice lake.