Kate Moss

a new poem

Kate Moss

In Miami the men are models or servers. 
So many of them I swim out and look back
at the shore, wishing you could pay someone
to bring you a cigarette in the middle of the ocean;
the Atlantic being indifferent to both
spectacle and beauty. Somehow it’s found
more to live for. Whatever, I think.
And decide I’d pay one hundred dollars
for some drags. For the feeling really.
And I’ll take it on the way out—after
my head’s been dunked under—leaving this
whole place like Kate Moss stepping
out of the Thames in a sequined dress
in her 40s. Glass of champagne
in one hand. Fag in another. I had the photo
taped inside my closet one of those dark
New York winters. She’s soaking wet in it.
Freezing probably. And the Thames—if I can
speak for it also—it too is indifferent.
A beast, unlike the ocean. Still wicked.
And who gives a fuck about it anyway?
What does it know about being a person.
About not going under. About doing it in a dress.