by the window tonight, i think of you,
a swollen hill at your hairline
turning purple in the afternoon when we
went to see the picture show in vegas.
i was menstruating that night, and you traipsed down to the lobby
to buy a box of midol and two peppermint patties.
these days, there are others. i am colder now.
i wear my hair long and swallow pills with my spit.
i read novels with no climax, and i
climax with no sound. you are in the desert
sketching monstrous windmills in the sand with one finger
while i bring up old demons over coffee.
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