August 6, 2009


by Alan Britt

The woman with ebony eyelashes
presses the elevator
as my waist
past her perimeter.

The door closes.

Intimate thoughts
are vaporized
by green numbers
illuminating each floor.

A breath of cloves,
or gingivitis?

But I imagine a leisurely stroll
through moonlit surf
if only
to taste the purple coquinas.

Her toe pounds twice,
calf stiffens
as the elevator oozes to a stop
1,000 stories
above my wildest expectations.

No one enters.

No one departs.

We descend
at a rate faster
than you can imagine,
falling about 10,000 years per second.

At around the third floor
we begin the false stop
so often experienced
on public elevators.

Then the door opens;
we exit like two swans.


Too much attention is paid
to sanctioned marriages.

Not enough
to impulse.


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