invites me to look for you. The people
disappear, for the most part, into homes
or taverns or into one another, into the night.
You know, white space proves most dangerous
at night. Bodies stand out like museum pieces
to ogle. I love museums, even during the day,
when women, filled to the brim with beauty,
walk through the galleries, staring
with such curious intent. I love staring, too,
at how the most public spaces turn
intimate after dark. Why do the trees look
so alert under moonlight? Almost as
if they witness my every move. I love
trees; they never give up, do they? People,
clouds, buildings—they trees don’t care
about what anything else does, they simply do
what they came here to do, I’ve learned
so much from their example . . . And, yes,
I know you in the audience wonder when
I will say “Wer weiß, wie es ist, ich zu sein?”
in my broken German, but Peter Lorre
couldn’t be here tonight, so I come,
proving a worthy understudy. Perhaps
you hoped to witness his penchant
for the young, like an accident you didn’t
cause but of which you feel a part,
a natural penchant to play voyeur. My tastes
differ, preferring to watch the mature at play,
learning from their adventures. But, please,
here I am, no translation necessary. Allow yourself
the freedom to imagine, to fantasize as you wish;
feel in me, day by day, each guilty,
God-discriminating touch come to a chord
struck beyond your body’s will to seize
an opportunity only guilt kept you from taking.
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