Missy

you seem made of cellophane, you seem won at dice
and lost through your womanhood and won again
and lost and won again and, in the end, pinned down as the malachite
tie pin
you seem, as you put one foot in front of the other, to be musing
though the thinnest, you seem to issue fuel and solar cells to every
indifferent and hurried grimace
which you drink the most, though coldest, though the most familiar
you prefer Cinzano with lemon, as we say, and right next to the station,
you dance
and pass out on narcissism and elegance
you seem to drink mango juice at the confectionary shop with a view of
the sea
a view of dolphins, floating cupcakes and cookies
you seem to juggle metal eyelashes in your ball of sweet stupidity
you seem to know me, maybe you or your swimsuit of smoky crystals had
known me,
your men's leather sandals seem to know me and respond
when I ask them about you now: nem tudom ...