There are no lines in this balcony scene,
just the long drag of engines, like dirty glass
bottles in some alleyway. You've asked me
should I feel like a prostitute sometimes,
not owned by some man but those curtain veins
paid by the hour, torn and collapsed.
Your breathing is narrow,
and a wide bloom of empty space
is outside you, spinning and obscene
because life's not getting any better than that.