This next poem is a prose poem.
I've written a couple but generally, they're not too hot.
It's called "The Sweet."
Can you all hear me?
[INAUDIBLE VOICES FROM AUDIENCE]
Really?
OK.
I'll lean closer.
Am I reading too fast?
[INAUDIBLE VOICES FROM AUDIENCE]
OK.
The man steps in out of the blizzard with his klootch,
his Eskimo prostitute.
And the room heats up as I cross the floor.
I know he is dying.
And I spin a half dollar around in the bar then
slide my eyes over the woman.
She has a seal's body.
Her face is a violet in the center of the moon.
The half dollar falls over.
I remind myself that to love a klootch
is always to be filled with emptiness.
Turn and lift my glass.
I shake my head.
Drink.
When I hear retreating footsteps, I turn.
The man stands at the door facing me,
his hand gropes out as a woman backs off.
And I see the northern lights flare up in his eyes
before he stumbles and falls.
The woman leans back against the wall.
I pick up the half dollar, spin it around again,
and go over to her.
We walk out into the darkness and I am
cold as I squeeze her buttocks.
Her blue dwarf stars.
It's sort of all right if you didn't hear the other poems.
And they get better toward the back anyway, I think.