Pyrefly

A thousand whores dress up like you,
you in a moment, framed, under glass,
a doll in white lace, an organless bisque.

Lost in your eyeshadow, lost in my organs,
sleep-talk, captive to a constant, mute surrender,
the Manhattan skyline jutting from your gums.

Beloved, caught in the webs of cellar spiders,
of trans fats blindly living out their functions,
walk me through these passages of sleep, through

wheezing steps as the dumb world continues,
a sure, deep voice in an empty event space, promising
even this feebleness is perfect.