In my profane erotic fantasy, I was stalking my prey through a maze of shadows with the smell of decay and cheap perfume. Her memory indelible in my mind's portmanteau, for tonight she would be cashing in her chips....

The moon spills mercury on thorn and stem with fingers that plucked the tightest budof pimento dark red roses — and now the night is a slow unbuttoning of wings of love and algebra as the wind hums lazy...