“Awesome, I understand,
But what does it mean, pulpit?”
She asks her boyfriend’s mother.
A young girl, eating a bird;
Slender, in a tube skirt, on Bleeker Street.
This is a shovel-ready project
Listed under mist, tea and heels.
She drips an eye-drop sharp as a tack,
And in his loft, her raven locks
Hide her almond orbs. They sip a subtle jasmine
After bacon somewhere on East Broadway.
Stephanie is Taiwanese, I imagine.
She blossoms off Canal Street,
A fan of inscrutable earrings.
The morning sun influences the air.
And the pills escape into the arm-chair.
As much part of Manhattan as the hydrants,
Uptown, their sallow complexions
Multiply among designer packages.
Stephanie intensifies my interest.
Her bare legs emerge from the East.
I note a noodle ideogram on Lexington
Layered over yesterday’s graffiti.
The offers come with spinning cup.
Invalid offers only get you nowhere.
Now I recall the spinning plates at a circus,
The west side gallery and a spring of steel
To the bracelet charming my upholstery.
Being an only child became a trauma
Only in China perhaps. BDSM leaves knots
As delicate markings on ivory flesh.
She wanted them to kiss, and I am reminded of Boucher.
There is that pretty painting in the Met:
A girl traps her sister by the wrists
So that she cannot escape
The kisses of a pre-pubescent suitor.
It is an only child who imagines this.

About anthonyhowelljournal

Poet, essayist, dancer, performance artist....
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