Blenched in the silence of a Saturday lost, we conjure forth the executioner of
love: plugged-in, lace corsets snug under bleached skin and probe fingers in the blaze
of painted-on eyeballs: Japan, never sever me from the grainy blur of my pursued: Tokyo.

Where we lived: the park, a brook, night comedy of lunatics and toy piano screams. Walking
from Maruonuchi, past the quiet trees, to our loose lipped cave, soft in pajamas, lulled smart by
idols. Them: high-definition, mimicking tongues you have come to love, while I kneaded model flesh.

In pink, tower of paradise, trail of smoke from the station, numbingly rubbed foreign by
syllabic bubbles, stolen, drunken on the tongue’s trail to the heart. We spoke tremors. Your
iguana crept across carpets. I was saved that giddy day by softest black hair, swallowed whole.

O, to rise out of the grave of mistaken places, and rest ear to pillow, mouth to member,
finger to glistening port, while still petting their fur or tongued ears on the sofa, where you sleep
among coats, and for once, in the morning kitchen, tell myself, “we are led, you and I, to doom
or to dally, either way.”





I stood suited, stilted to the microphone
and spoke trippingly from the inner deck,
gaping dawn

Hot fingers folded, my arm reaching around the
wet ring of her waist: short black hair, a shudder
fuzzed warm

Until someone put my hand in actress as escort
through May’s nightly rain, lusty glare pulling loins
soaked white

And voice on water, the Bay, returning to haunt sleep
to wake in stained sheets, spreading red like blood petals
cunning sweat



Jamie Grefe currently sleeps and breathes in Beijing, China. His work appears in numerous journals and literary magazines. Please, give him three cups of black Italian coffee and read his work slowly:


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