You walk through vast airless markets
for a shabby cigarette,
you enter into vague caverns of your soul,
looking for a fruit salad @ $2.99.

You enter a restaurant, like a stranger.
Figs and olives are open in the bouqueted air
mirror bathrooms are flashing
sex on gentle leashes, long pipes lit
in the belly of an incomplete expansion,

reach to me through the microchip
in my shoeheel, oh equatorial pull,
run me over with mercury, abandon my body
in a hail of shattered smoke,
make me part of the unknown world,

bright mica glasses
eyeing up from the belly
of a river carving through