Me and Baryshnikov get high And wreck the house. I throw stemware Into windows. He stabs a hole Into the David Salle over the mantle. Something peppy from Kreisler Carries us from one room to the next.
Gripping the crown molding Over the bedroom door, Misha executes The perfect pull-up. “What,” He says, “I blame for every fuck ups In my life my parents?” The cast Of his shoulder. The angle of his jaw!
Even the splay of his fingers! There is simply more to see in him Than any other! He strikes the floor With Pushkin’s cane, and up Springs fresh water! I’m holding A bag of giant bettas I’ll never be
When Misha’s wife returns earlier Than expected. Misha looks ruined Over a bowl of antique marbles, A bloody tooth in his lap. I sneak Into the tub, hoping the bettas Mellow my crash. The water cools,
Meeting me internally. I imagine Misha in bed, moving in on his Wife, his wife pushing back Because she’s pissed. Two or three Bettas fin past my legs. Delighted With the night exactly as the night
Unfolded, I’m just this side Of gone, which is to say, right here, Inside this body that will carry Me into sleep, where I’ll find Misha waiting for me at the garden Table, white with wine and rose.