Fire escapes are grotesque and impossible
a building wearing its spine on the outside
with tiny figures on top, poised for flight.
You are distracted by a glittering stain
while searching for rooftop sex
while seven rifts open to sweeter hells
you fingertip the ridge of concrete.
The warmth of saliva on teeth pulls you forward
and because no one fell this time
everyone’s sweat ends up smelling good.
The cruel press of sun on shoulders
brings out a stratospheric sheen,
the only reason anyone would come downstairs
skinless elbows and knees sticking to your clothes
with everyone pressed for cigarettes and wine
you ooze back through the window.