Jeweled ornaments clang
against the red oak dresser
as she regards her eyes
in the silver mirror. Her red lips pout
at the puddles of sapphire.
Slowly, with gentle, translucent hands,
she tugs at the zipper of her dress,
then buffs her collarbone
so the thin, white material pools
at her ankles. Plucking her feet
from the cotton ring, she ambles
to the glass doors. The moon washes
her tender stomach and silken legs
a milky honey. She presses her hand
against the glass to steady
the soft fuzz of alcohol
at the nape of her neck. Illuminated windows
of New York architecture
thrust into the night sky, like
silver spoons, kissing the stars
with jagged roofs. Jazz music cascades
out of open windows, permeating
the clouds and her skin. She listens.
It must be 3am now, as she ponders
life and death and sex and dance
and liberation.