Borrowed Dress

    He left the room， assured of his immortality——

    or was it just his cologne？

    I once wanted his money——not really his money，

    but the freshly minted coins of reason.

    His hands smelling like prime numbers.

    I once wanted his swagger， his fame

    but without the dental work.

    I'm reminded that my destiny was

    to stand reflected in the infinity-inducing

    mirrors with other women in restaurant

    bathrooms who pat their hair， make that little

    moue with their lips；

    who return to the tables of men，

    their hands wet， body hairs galvanized

    like filaments¹ of iron. Strange how

    everything is orderly even in dissipation

    when leaves blizzard² the pavement.

    I don't see them land but their fall，

    the event of it， is still present， almost invisible.