You, who are soft like distant beacons bleeding on night hills,

warm and fluid like their signals;

you, who are strong like ocean salt, bright

like the gleam of trench limestone and sunfish eye;

you, who are smoke and saxophone on dim gramophones,

carnation over sad velvet;

you, whose eyes are dark, inviting mysteries;

you, who are all slow smiles and sharp angles,

warm water, sweet wine;

you, who wears flesh like angels wear their filmy robes;

you, who laughs a laugh like clarions at the tide of victory,

like golden bells at Christmas;

you, who makes gravity itself blush when you walk by,

who causes entire empires of molecules to part and kneel;

you who unbinds me, sets me free to swim through

rushing currents of desire, seas of passion.

November 1999. The days are colorless. I’ve been living for most of the fall in a decaying tenement near Midway Airport. My companion is a former prostitute named Melinda Davis, popularly known as “Doc” on account of her initials, M.D. Last month I dropped out of school even though it’s my fourth year. I spend the cold hours smoking cigarettes and watching the snow gather without sympathy on rooftops. My hands are jaundiced and weak.

Doc is a small girl, no more than a haphazard gallon of cellulite poured over frail bones. She wears fake leather pants, carries a fake…

Daydream or Fever

Essays, Fiction, Poetry

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