Breezes bare a hairline. Small leaves
blotch the gentleman’s hand
like age. In the city
his mind was lit in neon. Now memory
persists in a small flowering.
There are no mirrors
in the hotel room,
but many metal doors.
Deep in the chest
of the other man
is a fist. The TV (like a fist)
is mute. Bridgette Bardot
has hardened
but, younger once, danced French ballet.
Her feet formed fists.
Is nature’s noise a happy song?
Dance strings the afternoon
with asterisks.
R.J. Lambert was a James A. Michener Writing Fellow at UT Austin, where he co-founded and served as managing editor of the journal Bat City Review. He was a finalist for the Gold Line Press chapbook competition, and his poems have appeared in the journals Copper Nickel, Harpur Palate, Río Grande Review, and Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review.