You snapped off your finger like twigs, handed them to me:

thanks for your time.

compensation.

and in my arms your severed digits twisted into a grotesque rodin sculpture,

but your fingerprints calmed me down

until i breathed so slowly

that i forgot my lungs.

when monet was losing his eyesight, he painted the bridge in his japanese garden

over and over

and his palette got warmer and darker and fiercerㅡ

blood reds and rich oranges and i sometimes think

that i see him in your face when you squint.

collarbone-first is no way to enter a room if you’re

trying to be subtle

but you’ll be subtle when versailles melts

into gilded plastic;

a crayon in the sun and maybe you’ll try walking

with your feet leading the way.

i know your games well enough to know they’re not games

any more than champagne was meant to be

poured down the drain

or the mona lisa

was truly

happy.