Nora Almeida

  Waltz or Carafe

  Scratch the throat of Los Angeles. This
is the mouthpiece of a secret  
basement within an earthquake
submerged behind a dive in local
zipcodes. Rub against the billboard
rim like a diver for a lemon
twist. Thump up a staircase four-count.
Shout “along a million faults
I waltz” and burn dividends
for the house red necromancy. When
you nod in place and return a girl
to her shade of maples. Shimmy and ache.
Shake and trade an eye for a Geiger.
Order soda and fizz in the telephone
cabinet spitting out numbers. When I step to
and in arrangements. When I flash a taxi
and you are sorry or somebody’s cousin.
Buy me a whole barrelful. Look down the room
like it is the future. Play a tune
on a first name basis. I am conciliatory
in complete erasure. Dancing by myself
and inside a suitcase. When I’m mixed
with vermouth and poured into a groove
in the ceiling. When I’m carried through
a minor suite. When I’m the removed thumb
of the morning, add water. The moon is  
setting and I’m getting the feeling
back into my arms all of a sudden. 

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