Come closer, and the dusk settles on my skin. Here is where to go when you are lost in America, the wine-dark streets and the piano bar reaching inside of me. Or, I forget, who I was. Tonight I stand in four different places, this city where the sewer monsters spill life on me and the float moves oddly.
Your mother is at the piano but she is not yet your mother, and look: here is another blind man.
No, I mean, we have locked ourselves into the salon, where the wineglass holds the key and the stairs wind down into the dark. The carbuncle stuck in the lion’s throat, you see it, this is where the skin mottles. A city where everyone is piled up, where movement becomes impossible and so vital. How place denotes happening. I am all in the same body after all. The glass splinters my face open wide.