Lava in a dress, culprit of brimstone,
everything beyond the tip of your
eyelash burns. Make your body shake
from the shoulders down in
sinusoidal liquid smoke. Shimmy.
Where does the sun set?
Not here.
We're not like
those who fear the slow
pressure cooking of your gaze.
Where does the sun set?
Not here. We're not crouching
behind a faux stage.
We do not crave
sleep, or vaudeville,
or the bodice of spring.
We look to the solstice
and wilder things
in the direction of the set.
Sexsette.
Where does the sun set?
Not here, not exactly.
We came upstairs to see
the dazzling tulips one last
time but got lost in your dress.
A thousand suns were
sewn in the rosewood
mold of a guitar.
EN/DQ 4/25/07
(a collaboration between Edward Nudelman and DQ)
