His studio like a Bohemian’s but astringent,
a poem by Rilke framed beside his bed
in the kitchen, which he read to me
the night it rained hotly, in a language I used to know,
and summer curled the crisp edges
of a map taped to the wall.
I covered his eyes with my lips, but he pushed me away (“there’s
no returning from there”), the window unit sputtering
black flecks onto the sofa, which he’d covered
with a sheet. We sweat on it
from our hair and armpits and genitals.
Morning would efface
us both, our unfinished selves, our
need to look masculine, refined, and in control.