Show me what it is that makes you hunger like copper
for a sharp, hot spark.
You are a magnet, moth-flame:
Don’t stop lapping at my wings.

Someone comes between us
and pours the wine. Your fingers, swirling,
cup the heat. Legs part
against a curvature of glass.

Talk to me all night
if that’s what I can have. Language
is crackling foil, the rush of being served
what I want.

At tables beyond us, metal rings, waiters pass
too close. Everyone in here wants to be sated.

The flower moon clings to the window
like wet lace lost in bed.
In the kitchen, the steam is climbing, climbing.
Nowhere to go but up.