The glint of golden glints travels
as fast as talk of sex. I just wanted
to tell you I love when you tell dirty
stories like I wasn't listening.
After two months of no work, sleep-in
when you should be looking.
Make love, books and head noises.
The morning streets, high red brick
smoothed soft by years of direct light.
Beauty doesn't own a brush.
Won't wash a knife with a wooden handle.
Won't say it understands when it doesn't.
Astounds even Brooklyn.
Fool if you think it's over.