the girl from Harley Street

and I were naked from the waist down 

on her roof balcony 

watching the women clutch some part of their anatomy

into saloon cars with blacked-out windows

from gilt and ivory-studded doors

a hint of bandage beneath the coat or shawl

or writhing in a little room

above her landlady’s mahogany milonga floor

laid out like a labyrinth in parquet 

for homesick Buenos Aires boys 

and sometimes when Carlos Gardel faded away

heard her calling ven y encuentrame 

and once on the basement clinic’s couch

but I cut it short

there being only so much white that lust 

can take before it suppurates

and rejects the host

Ben Verinder