by Steven J. Serafiani
I had vision of zydeco
women in front and in back of
all those subterranean footholds.
Creme Brulée thoughts to stumble
around quarters; shoes cobbled
on cobble spoon up cobbler.
dark shots poured in curtain
brothel vestibule for the
ashen. the brothel contains not
lust but zeal; for thought unlike
what is strewn.
my mind now absinthe sugar cube new
accent in front of tourist prose;
just staying the night then back to
midwest values. Then I see, truly:
artist leaves brush in teal feather,
then she is god. she is god.