Like a burning dirigible,
she comes guns in tow
to sticker me with shock.
She says her name is Emily,
but I know it’s actually
Elizabeth or Sara or Britt.
That’s the short of it.
And she smiles, half-mockingly,
half-rhetorically, asks me
how exactly I’m getting on
with my vices and iced glasses.
She’s a spectacle, she is.
She deviates with distinction.
Her lurking, lyrical gaze
bestows form to my folly.
And as she turns on her breath,
she lays her fingers upon me,
unpins her gown,
and grows ripe in the sun.

-r. miller

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