Recognize those men inside the hallway

beyond the door? I am pretending

to be you gliding into the room

                like a sleepy egret and I trip.

Look, the dancers overflow.

The music-maker cycles the songs.

Softly, I emit the music

                of nonhuman animals―a solo cow left mooing.

No one responds to my overtures.

Laurette—the truth is our drawers

got empty and hungry

                opposite the garden. I pine

for a language of languid verbs

whispered between the wall & sofa bed.

The erasure transpired quickly.

The words leftover stand publicly

                like a woman in red being―smile.

We possess all things; we are draped in things so heavy,

                          our shadows stink with the weight.

In the dark, the dancers take flash photos

of a red volcano, a woman under reservoir ice.

Step, step. Wiggle step. My hair is full of sweat.

Laurette—will you dance with me.