Sarah J. SloatWhere do you winter, when
the company, not exhaling a veil
of cigar smoke on a buttoned blue sofa?
You fall for an industry
magnate but stay married
to the antique joy of slumber, lying
coiled in crushed fur.
You tell time by the weight
of cadavers arriving by aircraft.
A rolling mill,
they descend in clandestine flight.
You would howl unencumbered
but succumb to the master’s soft fist
like a blossom; gently
the crowd with gunfire. Read more »