Tonight I will not think of you
and the carpet and pillows and linens
you kissed and crowned and scarred
last night and the night before last
with Porto wine and imported perfume
and cigarettes purchased in-transit
by traveler's checks (or was it hard cash?
I forget) from someone with a face
that, if translation serves me right,
reminded you of me and the ones before me
because we two and three and four
spoke in silences thick and hungry
and immutable as the walls that chased
and pinned and carved your shadow
in petroglyph magnificence.