it's the cold, rusty, drippy chamber of hinges,
blind mirrors and naked faucets,
tiles, crippled locks and idiot scrawlings on the enamel--
the place where we committed ourselves months ago
(small warm minutes sparkling like oily insect wings)
to a surreptitious tryst: smashed together
against the wall like salt-streaked seaside blossoms
leaking drops of watery virid nectar from crushed veins,
composing single notes of pillow-quiet laughter
as the skin of our lips touched.
you pinned me to the wall, your opium eyes
shining like an eight-ball or a polished knife,
and i was stoned on the closeness of your breath.