The lines line up & nothing happens.
What was that about ‘affect', your attitude detached
but still in the black?

The event sounds like a feral,
capital sense of timing,
talkback static as it empties all night
clearly & quietly as rain

or a commitment to free speech
as it drains out each Friday
& comes round as incessant, languorous prose.

Every movement is strobed by flash light.
We shake hands, smile
as an art form, like Frederic Jameson
deep in a conversation

going nowhere, that look of euphoria
exactly like praxis
thought through & executed on the upper west side,
per diem covering expenses.

What was that about your organ,
that bit where you wore your heart in your mouth?
As if it really paid attention?

We mingle outside the gallery,
background sucked in like soft cocaine.
You lean up warm against stars
panoramic as a beauty spot

emptied again for the weekend,
neat folds in itineraries matching & fun,
dazzling headspace decorative.