Oily light in the corridors
and the smell of old suitcases
we borrowed from your parents.
You write our room number
on the back of your hand, spread
postcards on rough carpet.
Through the louvers
we watch emergency lights flash,
dragging cars out of fog.
Later, in the dark, you search for the bed.
Crookedness
meets your fingertips.
You grip my bent leg
like a branch
to climb up and sit on.
In other rooms,
people wait for hot water with a hand
in the shower.
From these windows
the world looks nothing like itself.
The ceiling has stolen some low stars.
Come closer.
The slow roll of cities
will turn us home soon.
Across the Pacific
the battered poinciana still stands
outside the house we live in.