From the scorched eminence the apartment's rigged on
You can run your fingers
Across the glassy shine of muck in the salt marsh
Past the metal sill.
As ice cubes melt into spent highballs,
Twilight grinds low blazing into stale water
Leaving clinkers.
We lean closer.
Oblique music springs from the furniture.
The air cycles obscurely down white plaster
And thickens into rugs at every margin.
For seventy minutes, this room has been inhabited
By a recognition.
We have not acknowledged it.
May never.
The evening wastes
Into blue paintings canted on cool walls.