Shit-mouthed, trouserless
spread-eagled on the bare floor
his creased skin tingling and turning numb
on the unforgiving carpet
Satan the dazzler, the Copper King
the high-wire hoofman
Satan the unmistakable, sloughed in sour juices
like a black spot on the sun
‘I want to feel like Hiroshima’ he had said
and sipped his drink, a flat pitch for the waitress
the rough journey of his hands
through sweat and clasp and silk, the tears.