Etienne Mallarme's Wooden Writing Desk
O, first love, the paisley eunoia's of
Etienne Mallarme's wooden writing desk at the coast—
eyelids heavy
from translation, a sleepy
nudity, the first time you
coiled yourself around me
in the humid twilight,
a Pisces who died
in Virgo season, a
ticking of fingertips
against my shoulder, goose bumped
a roll of the dice will never abolish chance,
and there was dishevelment, a fevered
rush, the writing desk in Paris, my lover
in a basement in Seattle, the
flutter
of first sight, Venus
retrograde,
and this poem is a parcel
wrapped delicately smooth
in a parchment paper
held by a small child,
and the sad eyes of the clerk
at the deli on the corner,
disapproving frown, the strap
of my tank top
sliding down to my elbow
and your face unshaven,
walked to the corner
for popsicles, Mallarme
like candy-colored words
on the ellipsis of my tongue.