of: Nightlife ^
Angelina, in the window, was watched
from afar, envied by a dark corner of
New York that dripped with old photographs
and music sheets, named Vincent.
Her curtains were never up, so the shadow
parade – lit only by candles – could never end
and therefore never reveal to him anything more
than silhouettes and distant noises.
Though she never appeared perfectly clear,
his hands, accustomed to the curve of a violin,
struck every note of her body against the glass.
The act, a transparency, occupied the area
between their nearly colliding apartment buildings.
The bricks would shrivel and curl in the wind,
eroding into the sewers and alleys, similar
to the effect Angelina had on Vincent,
who remained minute to the spell of
her wavering figure.
Angelina, in the window, had a husband whose
shadow, most contorted, sometimes cowered
before her or cradled her whole.
With suit and tie, starch and crease –
he left Vincent to imagine how folds of skin
interacted against folds of cotton.
When rats would run the wire,
Vincent recalled horse tail and sound,
and played to their love-breaths –
assuming their whispers.
My darling, isn't that a beautiful sound?
My darling?
My darling?
My darling?
Sometimes Vincent would play harder -
racing their noise to the finale.
He never won. The hot summer moon
stared down at him as he wept.
Angelina, in the mirror,
sighed and tore at her reflection;
organized her business cards against her candles
and counted the money on her nightstand.
Because she was marked by many scents
– a fee for all – she always
showered, was always wet.
Angelina, in the mirror, cried silently.
Angelina, in the window, stank of a reverie
that flooded Vincent’s room. Her sighs and
laughter, etched into his glass chased him
into the night to find a different kind of
dark corner buzzing with bodies and
slipping with sweat. To a silence
where every fire could be amused.
Angelina, in the window, was left
without an audience for several days.
Amongst the lace and satin, shoved
into a small wooden box where echoes
become hoards, Vincent came across a card.
The address reminded him of violins…
My darling?
She answered the door in skin.
Vincent wore no suit – but Angelina;
Blew into her pores and raked away
her hair, bent against her body
like a mold fitting in to rest; grew dizzy
when she spoke “How funny,
there’s usually music at night.”
My darling?
Angelina, of the street, became
another dark corner – broken at the edge
with wax and coins and cards and clothes;
whose face was outlined by a man of music,
whose ears never heard strings again.
The buildings grew distant and impaired,
were robbed clean of stucco by the wind,
then stepped forward into a different kind of night,
Whose moon was cold and clear,
required closed windows.
The rooms shut their curtains to the world
while the new silk moon stared down at them –
My darling.
”Angelina” - 2008
