Clattering off taxi cabs, catching
the sun like ice skates,
this shower of sheet metal
is ruining tonight and its soft
accordion music. I cannot hear
the silver slap of your laugh
on the water. Pass me
the dish of butter roses,
love, sounds like something awful
and permanent. I’ll always be
your long blue bottle of sparks,
you scream, but your French
is broken and our waiter weeping.
“Girl with the Flaxen Hair” I want
the accordion to play, for you
twirling a pink cocktail
umbrella, wearing shattered
glass in your hair.