Ludlow

An inch from the curse and pearled by the evening heat       I shake my polo neck and a cool draught buffs my chest. What rises is my animal aroma             the scent of blue-ribbon stock      the sort a starred chef would ladle from a zinc-bottomed pan    to soften and savor the hock he has sawn and roasted for the diners out front who sip at shots of pastis and gnaw around the pits of kalamata olives. My head sits in his fridge: stooping for herb butter, our eyes meet and he touches my cotton-cold face      just as once I stroked your cheek in a dream you suffered in a room above the river.