Isn’t it such fun 

in the velvet room we play – 

​

plush drapes refract 

red light that shatters to dance 

on a white linoleum floor 

like fireflies  

​

in the morning, when 

it is good, then dims; 

the slow overture of a lethargic star 

in the velvet room, where we play. 

​

And then it’s cascading red 

is that of the machine – 

it hurts the fireflies 

(pop, hiss and sizzle) 

​

in the hot air falling to 

the white floor 

overcome – light to fade, 

in the velvet room, where we play. 

​

Isn’t it such fun 

when it is late and lightless 

to pluck with velvet fingers 

a firefly 

​

and raising its brief reality to 

velvet lips 

bite down decidedly 

so a little less life flashes 

​

to taunt you, to define 

what is you and 

what is the velvet machine 

in which we play.