Indigo Hotel

Up here on the

umpteenth floor

the City’s salt not brine,

where neckties 

candy striped in

salmon skin and

burgundy velour do

orbit over

lunar leather hands, the

strings of calloused

constellations

of chocolateering eyes so

freshly jaundiced like

the sun.

Please Do Not Disturb us as

we rust away with

tiles of the room,                  

still fermented to

the floor,

Two perfect jugs of wine,

where all we need are

ripened grapes

and time.