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.