There were tiny hounds sniffing¹ out their gilded² cages. Fireplaces

    chaste³， unlit and beds soft as the pears I ate from palms outstreched.

    The hem⁴ of my dress was wet from the fountain and finally it lay on

    the floor like the slick blue skin of a fish. We danced silver as a

    shiny hook. I heard them clap： red nails flashing smiles. One

    misplaced kiss， one eye shut. The concierge⁵ bald and fat， cuddling

    his little pink prick⁶. The elevator stuck. The city was singing.

    Someone was taking pictures. My legs splintered at the hips⁷， and

    that night New York wrecked⁸ and swelled⁹ inside me. A beautiful girl

    is a great storm， slapped around by the hands of her own desire.

    She lifts up the green skirt of Central Park， wading¹⁰ twelve floors

    below， and wishes once more for coachmen and carriage： to be salt

    and tear in the horse‘s eye， to dissolve beneath his blinders.