An Assumption
You like the dark things,
all covered with barnacles
like a mussle-shell.
Drawn to death,
you are in-folded
like a casket.
Streets damp with blood,
whores painted to walls
like murals.
The moon is a distraction,
not neon stars, not
theater strangers—
Two men
hug you with smoke:
assume your value
by the
way
you
reflect
light.
Published in Goblets, Summer 1983