I hover somewhere back behind
the map inside the skull that guides me
through these small streets
to dinner. Everybody in elegant clothes.
Resting in the air condition. It is inevitable
that we will each die in named storms,
that we will be blown against the walls
behind our faces. Sounds made from
the boxes in my friends’
throats. Be more like the doorway
to the restaurant, to hold and frame
these people. The beer Dan holds,
that weeps in Dan’s left palm.
Jane’s earrings shaped to look like birds.
The soft music, the fixtures.
Cities beneath serious rain. They have
brought out for us complimentary
orange drinks. Jeremy laughs until the joke
is well over, and the music is so low
it is done. We are disappearing into
the map’s folds. Small birds. Smaller ones.