She is drunk as the moon

It is nei­ther the flag that moves, nor the wind that moves. It is your mind that moves.

Zen Koan

she is drunk as the moon
shin­ing above her arms bracket
face she is way­ward 
with some beat some hit
for­got­ten for­got to pull up and
pull down her too small tube
dress breast ass right on that
line drive to lizard hind­brain
the crowd slows sur­round con­ver­sa­tion
strays away to gaze and she knows
they watch her

        (don’t watch her!
         watch them
         watch her)

men stare and women
glare here and there a squint
or licked lip a thumb run­ning
down the sweat of glass
fin­gers press to ta­ble
cig­a­rette pull and arched eye­brow
it is not silent but would be
but for that beat that hook
she the bait they 
want to take

and so when the night died
and no­body told us
and when we weren’t look­ing
                        the moon
stum­bled be­hind some build­ings to 
                        sleep it off
                        ob­served the mea­sure
                                      of our de­sire

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