I kneel on the floor. Cut the last late summer tomatoes,
slit the thick fennel bulb.
There are plastic forks left from yesterday's Chinese
How many days in this room without even a proper bed?
We outgrow everything too quickly.
No China could contain us.
Come eat, so that we get on with our hungers.
Where We Fuck
Now, suddenly, out of nowhere, Dusseldorf.
Suddenly now, nowhere but German towns
Where you rise from a cot in the Hotel Garni.
It starts with a deceptively blue sky.
Here it is hot and getting hotter.
German towns where you walk twisted, stone streets.
Already I am thinking Potsdam. Do the streets twist?
And in Berlin? Do they lead
back past the hotel clerk who lets the phone just ring?
I would love you in any city. Before in damp Dublin.
Rome could be Hoboken. Your body on any bed.
Or now between cities where you are edged at evening.
You are street and canal and blind alley.
You are station, car lot, and steps to the palace.
The sky is our thick body. Rub way in. Come out all red.