The breeze stirred the trees;
how it ruffled the curtains
you stood by to watch the movements.
As those years of charcoaled fireplaces,
the sky was a fault of soot
and when the drizzle pat
the assembly in potholes,
the straight homosexuals
under the streetlamps by the bar
unfurled as the Near East had done.
The monologues, within the trees,
signaled to move back.
You knew the map by heart
and owned a book
for poems with strictures.
The strands of hair woke
even if this room lost its comfort.
Your body is in full throttle.
Through that iron door, you hoped
before the chance for courage
the room would clear out this madness.