I gave you cunnilingus in a dark alcove
while poets took turns reciting “The Inferno”
in the Poet’s Corner. It was our turn.
My nose started to bleed while I gave it to you.
I noticed a metallic taste, I thought it was you.
I got up and wiped my finger against a note
tacked to the wall, leaving a dark streak.
We walked to the bathroom and cleaned up.
David came in and said, “Wow, Studio 54!”
like I had been taking cocaine.
It was a much more powerful drug,
We sat in a pew for an hour afterwards hugging and necking
and wouldn’t leave when a priest strode by demonstratively.
The dark protected us, and the fact that this was a modern,
non-denominational cathedral. One of only two
authentic cathedrals in America. Well,
We were staying.
Outside a lineup of firetrucks made the cathedral front flow
red and blue. We were both concerned about AIDS
but didn’t know what to say.
When we broke up it was almost your birthday.
We talked about Anna Akhmatova in Sakura Park grass,
if I left. I left. You stayed. “Well, she’s great,”
Julien said to me later. I couldn’t agree at the time.
and you are a simultaneous translator for a Russian theater director.