poem: your notorious

sexy shoulder dresses in
the back alleys of Yerevan,
3 to 8 bucks apiece, that's
a hunger richly deserved,
80,000 to choose from,
these are your margins
in the jungle:
sexy jingle to match your
notorious bigs,
hammer the fading dreams
while you slip on the rounds,
carouseling the plangent
afterchords you lost,
childhood poverty,
adolescent fatima,
vagrant deserts in a 1000
lifetimes, Yerevan still
questing, still coursing
through your veins,
this single match
that flames, a failure
in no small magnitude:
if only you could see into me
verified longings,
amber swerves round
the corners,
the music withers,
lifting you homeward.