My index finger nestles in your hand.
You run a penknife’s blade beneath the nail.
Discomfort is a thing we understand.

And I, not hearing the spirit about which
my master, as one in opium, would go
to his end dreaming, wrapped the skeleton

Swallowed by blood-red vinyl of the hotel lounge,
I drain the last of a grasshopper—my first cocktail,
ever. You loosen your tie. Dad, glare at headlines

The cardinal’s cursed us with another spring
and the vines awake to exercise their rights,
nearly burying the side wall: full, gorgeous,

Palermo. Along the dock, boys greet our boat,
turn cartwheels for five lire coins (inferior
brass I try bending with my teeth, once),