I climb the stairs to your loft.
You open to me with a cold
desirous stare
which frightens me.
You show me your toys
musical instruments,
clappers, mallets, drums electronic
equipment.
Rehearsal city, you say.
You show me your room,
your bed.
Everything is brown.
You give me tea.
You play
the music you have written.
I am a guest in a large brown
room
inhabited by a composer
who uses rhythmic and harmonic
repetitions
in which minute variations are barely apparent
to
draw people irresistibly into his sphere. . . .
I do not wish to
be drawn unknowing
into this droning
We lie on your bed.
Your music surrounds us.
You nudge me with your soft beard.
I
tell you I have my period.
You shrug.
the music, obsessive,
insists.
I shrug.
We rise. the brown bed is red.
Like a
battlefield, I think, sourly,
With pride.