We leave alone for more people, travelling
with the news of sickness. Palaces of death
sentences. Organ echoing off gold. I find
a home to walk myself asleep inside. There,
I pose for your picture. Near the exit where
bright could happen. And if this city could
forget itself, the better. Breaking the weather
into fractions. I didn’t expect these questions
about water. Room between us and the street.
An accountant, too, is a diarist. My prayer
to a statue more a commiseration (heels both
pierced by Paris). As airplanes fly over us
during soliloquy, we’re reminded: Back then,
night forced an end to things. To teens called
to the ocean. Like a goat, I eat what I find
between fences. Drunk with you in a garden
watching elderly women trace figure eights
between busts. Though it is not their dream,
they envy us our squirrels and our falling
leaves. What we envy: a train that runs us
through the dark under ten minutes of sea.