the women you are accustomed to

wearing that same black dress,

their lips and asses tight;

their bronzed hair set in perfect place,

these women gathered in my dream

to talk their usual talk,

their conversation spiked with the names

of avenues in France.

and when i asked them what the hell,

they shook their marble heads

and walked erect out of my sleep,

back into a town which knows

all there is to know

about the cold outside, where i relaxed

and thought of you,

your burning blood, your dancing tongue.