Love with all its golden curls had no idea of loving.
I knew that, waking up, covered with torn illusions,
while Cupid stood there, smoking a cigarette,
his pale buttocks more real than the moon as a whole.
Once he loved me, a god he had been in my past.
It was my imperfect body wanting his, but I would have
settled for this double moon and cigarette ashes.
We noticed, though, how love with all its golden curls
left the room through the open window in fumes,
and he put on some clothes. He was human at last.