because it is dark. Why, here's
one at my fourth floor window. Come in,
old flame, you are my buddy. Wrap your
flanks around me. Without looking
I can distinguish against my cheeks
the brown patch from the white one each
made out of hairs out of doors
in the vinyl grass-black
heat of the streets, many years ago.
Sit down, rest that big flesh
fig against the floor. I rise to shut the window
and looking out resolve never to turn back.
Then she told me why the pinhead couldn't stay at the party.
--R. Meyers, c. 1970, Mott St. betw. Prince & Houston
