The Lafayette Inn

last night i took pictures of myself
in a borrowed leopard print robe

in my head i was beautiful, the imitation
cat skin opened like a book down the middle

proust or another lonely queer
whose obsessions make clean taxidermy

of the temporary body. disgusting to look
upon oneself in any capacity but especially

here—face rearranged in the split approximation
of pleasure. glamorous for a moment

then gone. it’s not the lens but the living
who fathom eternity. my face so full

of wonder it’s sick. how many men have
passed through this room, through my lips?