The pale dance of afternoon flirtation. Thrust, parry, riposte, dodge. The movements both improvised and memorized. Steps drawing jagged spirals in the sand. And the unilateral framing of a dutch auction of ever-descending numbers. Thirty-nine, thirty, twenty-five, nineteen. At some point they all add up to X plus Stein. Back teeth self-loathing in mirror age-lines. Unmeasured handfuls of anaphrodesiacs in the shadow of stars. Re-reading the crumpled words of long dead emperors. The unconsciousness of orgasms. And yet. The freight-train biological machinery of streetcars, undeterred.

4:45 p.m. - 2020-12-09