I decide for us a city in which to fall in love.
Nothing lasts but while it does, it should be
the yearly eruption of blossom trees.

From trams, passengers watch a pink snow
they can’t touch. Sun hammers the glass
and makes the carriages so hot

sliding over the tracks. Behind windows
women pose in their underwear
like museum exhibits, blowing kisses.

On every corner, steps lead down
to smoky cafés that smell of our first evenings
together, but it’s even hotter down there.

How late is too late to find our way back
to those light-headed days?
Houses by green canals have dark eyes

that watch us, houses as quiet
as water. A bird sings in a tree
from behind a lace curtain, its petals glazed

by the sun so they already seem old
ahead of tomorrow’s decay.
The canals flicker with face after face

like thoughts of long-gone reflections.
Smoke and women behind windows
fall through the sieve of evening,

become timeless dust.
And in the tallest house, behind
the highest window, a girl writes her name

in the grime of a sill, and lifts her finger
to blow away particles
that sunset from another world
                                                         makes golden.