A swollen hive opens its fluttering eye.
My gaze slides over ten unnamed cities.
So many people not to think of,
so many countries of thought
where I cannot take refuge.
Stopped at the viewing line,
I lean toward gold-framed petals
and wade into red cannas.
I burn your letters again,
unsettled your vases, my face
and mouth full of your weather.
I am exalted by the pianist ruffling
the same notes in the lobby. Across the room,
heels snap the floor into applause.
I’m undoing your sashes again,
lowering your skirt. Into the rushes, up against
the veins and dew, I press my mouth;
horses canter into the red wake.