My ribs are a lovely museum you know,
all spooks and idling chevrolets.
Amazing, the glow that finds its way
into open spaces. This mouth like a
broken reflector, a length of silver chain.
By now, I've burnt your maps.
Brown edges curl among the foxglove.
I've carved a heart in the tar
that lines the shoulder and assembled
my name in bottlecaps. In ballrooms
down the road, women spin bluish
in taffeta for fifty cents a dance.
Lucky for you, I'm easy.
My pink shoes abandoned at the turn.