A pile of white towels in the corner;
a duct-taped X on your bedroom floor.
The backdrop is pitiless, like a late Rothko,

the Marlboro smells belated—
and I grow nostalgic
for absolutely nothing.  I want more than your little

lash marks, your vulgar watch.  More
than art school.  More than the greatcoat
in Tom Ford’s last Gucci collection

(“I’m stunning”, the mirror lies).  I want lust
as cold, precise, and prescriptive
as the en dash of a dead man.