We were in Berlin — I had no one,
not a reference of the once war torn
country now in their most
progressive era, Berghain and The Lab
thousands of miles away from us.
In those days, yes, I could dream
with my eyes alert, two dark grapes
begging for closure. I dreamed
mostly with Christian, then, in his dark
bedroom with the blinds drawn and thumping
house music and two men tearing each other
apart. We imagined big those days:
the candelabra, a stick of gold, talking
birds, and a beautiful man feeding us
seedless red grapes. The mind was a luxury
to have, and, the flesh, but a vehicle
spitting snow. Yes, we wanted better.
No, we weren’t going away. Bacchus,
in the corner, empty-handed and weeping.
Barely, can I keep my eyes open he said.
The strange syntax of the sentence
concerning to the hearing of the heart.
Dream I said. The music and men, still going.
For what felt like hours, our eyes were closed