look how your name made me
dream – of mirrored courtyards
and paper cut feet –
this city spread
on seven hills, and midnight
flowers open up their lips,
breath sweetly in your face
above the dazed commuters.
and who am I to claim innocence
standing on poorly tarmacked road
and hands smelling of fish and cheap
how the moon, heavy-lidded and pregnant,
would sit on your side of the bed
trying to gulp down nausea?