He left the room， assured of his immortality——
or was it just his cologne？
I once wanted his money——not really his money，
but the freshly minted coins of reason.
His hands smelling like prime numbers.
I once wanted his swagger， his fame
but without the dental work.
I'm reminded that my destiny was
to stand reflected in the infinity-inducing
mirrors with other women in restaurant
bathrooms who pat their hair， make that little
moue with their lips；
who return to the tables of men，
their hands wet， body hairs galvanized
like filaments of iron. Strange how
everything is orderly even in dissipation
when leaves blizzard the pavement.
I don't see them land but their fall，
the event of it， is still present， almost invisible.