The Artists' Honeymoon
In Bed The Kiss, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, 1892 We rest, rung. On everything, a slight blur. Parisian. Post-coital. Like Sleeping Beauty in reverse we kiss, then fall into deep sleep. Next day, we eat the city. Then we rest, run. Gone. Very thin gaslight makes cities of our bodies. We’re natives and we’re newcomers. We kiss one morning, and the sun goes down. In the dark parlor where we restrung one very thin gaslight, we conjoin at the window. The whole world seems underwater: how seas support our own wet weights, and how all our souls, wild as thoughts, were strung on everything as light.