I arrive in you by bus and by train

Into your overwhelming heart, central, disoriented, already and off

Into the city itself,

Trains rattle comfortingly past my hotel room—I write, and wonder if my ideal existence involves living out of hotels and writing—I live my other, more kinetic life in you—I on the way to

I think about moving in—live in one of your cold and narrow terracehouses—live in a sharehouse again with twelve other people—live in a series of tiny hotel rooms

You might send me instead to one of your desolate suburbs

You might stop being so disorienting

I might get used to your weather

So let's keep our distance