We called it a Russian summer,

roses on the table, vase

too light in the wind — the blooms’

suitable pinkness, smarting.
She lent me a jacket—

pelty aubergine velour,

with button missing. And hat

of genuine silver fox
—undoubtedly monstrous.

I petted it shyly, tried the jacket,

its gappiness rehearsing

nobility’s bruising
and that sound of axes.

On the table, near the vase,

crystal bowl brought up

its bellyfull of cherries.
Black at the mouth, with cream,

we embarked (with sighing

by far our most

credible affectation).
Sucking Lapsang through teeth,

we pierced the glossy skin,

and swivelling the pits

set wet magenta running
along lines of wrists

to splish in drops to the floor

— seven sets of bloody fingernails

thumbing stains into paper.
The thud of some future,

and isn’t it funny? Everybody leaves.

It ends in luggage, and an old man fretting

for his master’s coat.