Revirgin

Falling from someplace urban,
out of macrame and coquelicot,
she is dead air in circulation—a nudist
in Bloomingdales with an unshorn angora sex
not shopping. Perpetually late to the party,
her kisses aftertaste of Boléro
and Xerox. She dreams of ice cream textures
and awakes each morning
an Antartica replica,
an undented pillow.