Beneath you is the swollen city,
markets and the plenaries of feral cats,
their siestas under siege from cops
with eyeshades up and windows down
tooling around in old Buicks.
There’s a whiff of stock footage about
it – sex on the breath of my first lover
from the interior. After light rain,
elms take a stand in a foreign park.
They spread their arms, raise lantern
blossom against purple incoming.
The years have issued a new print
of our one film, which I watch daily,
never mind the slow wow you suffer
in playback, tailback, fanning out.
