maybe it is my attention to the female aesthetic
but even the chairs and end tables have long
legs, the knobs are decorated with rhinestones
and I become a stud sifting through the perspective,
the angularity of Claude’s room, had only been
to Giovanni’s room, only a secret hideout in Adam’s
Morgan where a German man invites me over
for drinks, it was the transformation of a classroom
to loft with the polished and checkerboard, the nerve
and the unheard would never entertain in black
and white, so I sat there and became nervous
the urge to explore my feminine side, the color
of Monet’s yellow, I am not missing an ear
so I can hear, the chatter of the self-involved
square mirrors and circular sounds, searching for
the historic, maybe a Moravian plantation
in Bethlehem with trundle bed or Roman wicks
maybe the smell of crabapples and musk but
had only seen Whitman’s American, not the decadence
of Moliere or Baudeliere, I was too narrow-minded
to be here.