I stich pills with gin,
think in pink things,
pinch sticky skin if his Irish shirt clings right.
It’ll fix my mind.
I fill this midnight with stripping
him in Mississippi spring.
Give him VIP hits, wind, kiwi whisky.
This hip is his.
I lip, tip girls in tight skirts.
Swig sins. Whisk with mint.
Climb stilts in this city’s shining filth.
This is lightning.