Maybe I knew,
lying on that stone bench
my head held in your denim lap.
The half hour crawling East above us.
In its wake,
the contrails of night skied clouds.
In the draft,
dusty bodies of stars
being dragged West
to the reaches of the Atlantic .
Your face eclipsed
the moon over the Mediterranean .
Rare and beautiful.
I only saw this once.
The night before,
lying on that red sofa
my head held in your denim lap.
The half hour crawling East
past the two stairwell windows.
I held your hand
under the leather chest of my jacket.
We watched the nothing being dragged
from one window to the other.
My drunken eyes eclipsed
your Midwestern face.
Blurred and shapeless.
I didn’t see you at all.
Both nights I looked up
and couldn’t see your face.
Each time,
my back ached.
On hard leather.
On stiff stone.
Neither, did I want to sit up.
Your smell soaked through my spine.
Your birthday, “Ciao bello
“Buona notte,” the next day,
“principessa.”
The First days.
Maybe I knew.
Half hours reaching the Pacific.
Even then.
The Atlantic dragging dawned clouds.
The First days.
The sun over the Mediterranean .
That there would be Last days.
Dusty stars over the Midwest .
