Untitled (Lyle and Robert, Bronx, New York, circa mid 1980’s)
gelatin silver print image
I never did tape the postcard of his print on my desk
last winter in Madrid,
Calle de la Ballesta, 28.
Harris, a young artist then, dreams on Robert’s cheek
in a pose so artificial my neck aches
looking at trade’s lips parted with exhaustion or boredom.
Dream without sirens
during the fifth plague year. Dream beside an open window.
All winter I rested so well.
All winter I rested so well I couldn’t remember my dreams.
My room was monastic beige with a rattling shower head.
My room had a firm bed and a view of a congested street.
Because my room was above the front door,
closed only after sunset,
the floor burned my feet with cold. I happily read monographs and zines.
For three months I lived