in the darkness,
he reaches under her shirt,
cups his hand under her breast

He calls her his
modern-day
Pocahontas

He has to admit
she looks more
like a carnie princess,
small in his bed

He imagines her,
pouring the
funnel cake- batter
with delicate
nicotine- stained fingers

He whispers
The World bled me dry
and they begin to spin