In this seraglio night always consists of     moonlight, jade steps and a curtain of pearls
all imaginary     a bunch of flowers against blue wallpaper
imagine     caving in under the concubine’s clothes a mound of snow
snow waiting impatiently to be possessed its crystalline body slowly
turning     constantly curling in on itself in a slow dance
a bunch of tulips divesting itself of the love of self as it brightly declines
a kind of purple whisper which must be spoken breathily
addressing only him as he crushes the petals heavily
a drop of purple milk like a concubine impatiently waiting to be sucked
concentrating     the entire world into one burning duct

In this seraglio     fire always has the rude playfulness of tongues
a pointed tip     licks the emptiness of skin     midnight’s cling
green like leaves gathered at the concubine’s ankles
his preference for her     a shower coming from every angle
watering the flower the little purple bowl of her nipple fills