in the city, it's hard work finding a crossroads -
the right mix of magic and midnight desolation.
my friend John Sinclair told me how
(never mind where it is).

when the time was right, i sat on a pair
of plastic milk crates next to a dead
fire hydrant, pretended to work on a piece,
didn't hear her walk up, didn't ask her
name didn't have to.

she said "read me something about being
in love and being alone." i started and she
opened her throat, poured, music over
the words - tear stained siren song.
stung my eyes, burned a hole in my chest.

she held my head, pressed my ear to
her stomach but i kept going
'till the words ran out
and i started over and the music
(god, her hands were warm)
the music
(on my neck, wet like tongues),
the music...

our voices mated, fused, faded to whispers.
stopped. we slowly untangled; she
strolled off into the night, heels tapping,
my fingerprints on her legs
my face wet from her song.