It’s where we meet.

In a restaurant, or an airport lounge.

You look older.

But you don’t look wiser.

On a concourse, by a left-luggage locker.

It’s where you wait,
settled on a suitcase,
for existence to come back in.

Tomorrows pile up, Himalayas and sugarcubes,
and life is mostly made of futures.
You’re saying Location is everything,

it’s where we live.

It’s where we met:

in a kiss, fingers sticking in the ridges of my spine,
and something moves in me like snow subsiding
melting from beneath by a gathering thaw:

it’s how I changed.

In a café. On a platform, or at reception.

Listen: I was there
when the ambulance was first called to Heaven;
and I was there, in the black neighbourhoods
in Detroit, in summer, when the sound of Kraftwerk
spilled out on the street from window after window:
it was me, and I was there.

A brilliant spot of colour
like the sunstroked sapphire
of the roundel on a butterfly’s wing:
you have to go now.

You turn and she says something small and calm,
the pine trees on the hill cast very precise shadows
in a light which seems to have crystallised
into a feeling softer than anything you have felt before,
yet something so vivid and so pure, which enlarges you
mysteriously, even as it happens you know
this is significant and it will haunt you:
you have to go now.

It’s where we loved.

In a day, or a few hours at least.

In a motel, along the main drag.

It’s the end, where there is no ending.

You try to live in the tears you cry,
but you don’t have the right.
Someone comes in and moves you on,

and the wheels on the bus go round round round.

It’s where we built.

At a rendezvous, a formica table:
little teaspoon symphony, milky steam from the coffee machine —
pyramids of boredom for desire to lie in,

tomorrows piling up,

but we are not in them.

It’s where we meet.

They clear out the squatters with torches and guns:
you have to go now.

It’s where we love.

In the stale scent of air-freshener in the transit lounge.

We have to go now.

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