Did he see your tan lines too?
North and south.
Peek-a-boo I see you. Move the curtain.
Did you let him?

Did the dusty, framed mirror
break into pieces?
I’ll bet it did.

On your knees
trying to fix it,
sections of snake
puzzle at first
then speak volumes.

Your works bag
fallen open
a tiny spoon, black with soot
a razor blade
and strap, a length of hose
the color of sad pee.

All supine marks of sin
resting on a scuff stained floor of wear
that mopping won’t fix.

Bronzed arms raised to the full moon
offering a dusting of snow then
caught in the weather.

It was my dream 
but you who were happy.

The whiteness of hidden flesh,
the drawn curtain.