For Señor Montero

Stuttering an antiquated word I address you.

One of us is an adorable monster

with impeccable manners.

The other ready to imitate.

You shiver; I quiver.

Whatever.

To the lighthouse.

Atop the tombolo,

the piping plovers rehearse Mr. B’s Tarantella.

We appoint ourselves aristocrats–

Decadent, brittle, and drowsy

yet tirelessly indulgent.

I toast your waking.

I salute your decision to sleep.

To the lighthouse.

Looking down from its gallery,

the white crests slide across a silkscreen.

As if you didn’t know:

This coalition is endlessly desirous.

Desiring its otherself.

To the lighthouse.

Or not. Why schlepp?

Especially when we’re sloshed

on a moonshine distilled from mimesis.

Anti-folk tales sashay alongside us.

In a hushed voice-over they narrate.

Our shadows have autonomy:

I watched you gavotte (one eye in a mirror).

Sleep is always an option. Also an inevitability.

How exhausting to be a marquis,

and to be a monster.

Already I remember the details of an us (an anus?)

by way of a movie.

But whose script? Whose camera?

We have been imagining houses to live in.

Separate but nearby. By the sea.

To the lighthouse.

If we tiptoe La Sonnombula,

the moon shines up from the seabed.

My dream: to sleepwalk alongside you.

I see you across low tide.

My gaze is touched by your presence (dear).

It too contains light.

I invite you to come near so that I might close my eyes.