I am in two rooms.

With my heels to the brick, I am hanging out the window.

Blood rushing to a musty head, thousands of strings running down to cold feet

I sing of barley and basil to the couches and armchairs

yellowed by pollen from the ever-open windows,

dust dancing in lemon illumination.

There is light without heat.

In the bedroom I am drenched in wine.

We are sucking electric crystals up to our brains,

sluggishly swigging from thin necks of thick green glass;

and we are smiling at each other’s soft faces, slowly becoming fragmented,

the pads of our finger tips adorned with grain and powder.

There is heat without light.

I pass myself by in the hallway;

my right hand 

does not know my left.