The beds are always made, and bright hallways
veer off like lanes, looking for canals to leap
across in a white arch, and the stairs rise

My mother wants to see me again. That means she’d like me
   to shave off my beard.

Like Casanova, you made love to trouble, cruising
for gondoliers, the thrust of the oar, desire and pursuit.

Where’s the blown-glass mirror to show each other
what we both fear, what we sing to disprove?

 

 

What did we want, waiting all day for storm clouds to
     reach us,

Like Proust’s maman, she stayed in when I prowled
the alleyways at night, making a point
of waiting, lit up in the window, gold

Morning, on the quay, there’s a break in the light
rain here in the serene republic. I take in the light.

Tonight I spent a good while in the garden,
thinking about—well, sitting amongst the flowers
I love to see, and, when it grew too dark,

Hudsons and Studebakers ruled the streets, 
a crossing guard and teenagers the pavement 
when I was eight. But that was an improvement 

Hudsons and Studebakers ruled the streets,
a crossing guard and teenagers the pavement
when I was eight. But that was an improvement

“So this is it, experience,” I thought,
lugging tin buckets from the ice machines
to rooms of real adults, with cigarettes