Your love is conditional, guarded by diplomats, but real.
Tonight we bat our tirades at and over each other
like beach balls smuggled into a ballgame;
your hand brushes mine, the waiter notices,
his words surround the affection
like fenceposts lining a perimeter
that can’t be secured. The end of this plot?
Well, you’ll exalt New York and your share of it,
leave me to defend Chicago and the rest of
America’s nethers from this fête on heels
like some hapless, backpedaled Cary Grant,
and then we’ll melt into each other’s beds
like découpage. OK! It’s true, I can’t change.
This heart beats with ink. I shape myself
from black. You always take the form of a question,
opening away from the facts
over breakfast with a gust of champagne;
knowing me, I’d spend my mornings
with pen and napkin in hand,
looking a little careless,
quietly guessing the answers.