Leading Lady
The male inhales quicksilver; the isotope
of shirt and tie, says she makes him blush
when she notices, blush when she remarks
that he may be remarkable.

She deals in absolutes -
there is no precipice, just the floor
and the fall,

the mercurial inclination of her
wayward eye dilating toward the
soggy yellow egg sun rising, moves
in metaphors, speaks in sparks,

he touches her leg,
she smiles, knowing,

yet lovers before love making
know nothing beyond self
justification, selfish whisper,
sainthood, and sin,

all actions are enacted in the
mind, each needlepoint thin
metamorphoses mimed in the
hollow space of would be soul.

The leading man opens the
scene with ironic truth, his mate
saunters, ceaseless underscoring,
endless staircases, and tango
of tangled expectations, Bette Davis
with one hand in her back pocket
and the other smoothing aside
a stray lock of a predetermined
engendered caricature, or Errol Flynn
drunk on heroic linier refractions,
lenses outlive him in the utopianly
skeletal carcass of what was once
mainstream, now oldschool,
later prehistoric.

The lady leads;
exits through myopic hue

bend toward continuum,
quiver as it naturally comes to you,
echo yourself
the audience awaits.