Nights, that Year
The streets came together in half-circles, no-car
zones with potted palms, Italian ice cream,
gardens strung with car-lot Christmas lights and people talking
German low in busted armchairs with their bottoms
almost to the sidewalk. We would go arm-in-arm when the time
zones and the Northern angles kept the night balmy late.
I tried stiletto heels, fraying the points.
I tried a sip of red wine. I kept trying to marry you.
I tried dressing you in my clothes, tried
riding barefoot on the train from Berlin. I tried
everything. We kept going back to the place with the busted armchairs.
We ate corn salad at one in the morning.
We slept on the floor and played pingpong in the bedroom.
We watched Sabine sink giddy into her pink pear shape. Our parties
were famous. We still have the pictures. I don't think
you remember it this way.