The police are here. They lock me in their icebox

and taunt me with blurred photographs

of blond glasses of water. La vérité, they say.

They demand les cheveux bleus. They whisper, Sale minet.

A rug molds in my mouth. I say

I don’t speak French. How may I be of service?

They spit into porcelain lenses,

rinse my eyes with kerosene.

The concierge slaps his skinny thigh, offers me

red lids; he covets my clean cheek.

I carry the general’s baggage, he tips me

over the balcony. What do you see? he shouts.

I socket the jaguar city; I inhale the capital

of swans. "Tits," he says, and smiles. He gives me twenty

and a kiss.

At night we roll out the bloody carpet,

we swallow each other’s wrists. The guests

like to hear our jokes–they pat our heads

and show some skin. By dawn I am my trousers.

The concierge leads me to the roof, he shows me

eyed and grimy stars, commands My hero, close your eyes.

I hear him lick his lips; I smell the city’s oil;

I touch the tar of childhood. I’m in it to my knees.