I call the first room Primal Scene. In it, 
the girl is neither naked, nor bound. She smiles, 
wrapped in bedsheets and a man’s arms. 

One wineglass and a fruit platter 
on the nightstand. Playing,
a small boy on the floor.

Down the hall, a door 
half-opens into Degas’ L’Absinthe.
A French actress, her companion 
at a table in Paris.

He looks to one side. She 
considers another.
 
At the end, from a mirror,
two nudes: a woman
and a youth. They drag

a tattered, bloodstained sheet.
Birth Murder Appetite Hasten Exit.