I get behind two lesbians in the Italian market, this medieval town in Germany — the market, no bigger than an elevator car, a telephone booth, and I say to the guy behind the counter you can leave the cheese out, I’m getting some too:
and we are all trying on new words like hats in a department store.
one of them says, Great and the other looks at her like, I didn’t know you could say that
and I gesture to the cheese behind the case and make a sawing motion with my hands and say, Grate.
And all of us laugh and say have a nice day, prego.
And on the way home I keep to the sides of the town like a rat who walks along the walls sideways,
by the time they find my footprints I’ve moved on to my next meal.
I wake to the sound of churchbells and no plans,
only poems about cheese, rats, lesbians,
how the number of tolls denotes the time,
why none of it matters,
the clock makes the same sawing motion sounds too
as it sands out the grains,
and as I lay in bed I can’t feel my body
I might be part of the sky
if I imagine it right.