The glass door was spinning panes
like an open book.
A suit the color of sky close to night,
wire of eyeglasses a gold moon.
He bowed as if judicial
and called a French name.
Glasses were filled with ice
the color of amber.
We were in America.
He asked me to take his hands.
They are cold, he said.
I warmed his cold hands
as we sat on the rouge banquette.
It was the last May of the century.
His eyes looked at my face.
His hand fell to the glacier
of my thigh and held on.
My gold tail swam dark green water,
the ocean smelled of gardenia.
Outside on the avenue people
scurried to their palaces, wearing
sunglasses, carrying shiny bags.