Love on the Roof

On the evening of June 10^thI go with a new friend to the movies.The film is about Siciliansgetting to America.They have to cross the Atlanticin a ship that is falling apart.

They carry photosof an American treegrowing coins in the branches.Giant golden applescoconuts pineapples pears.

Intermittentlythey bathe in rivers.These Rivers are Empire Riverswith a milk white bright shine.

The new friend decidesI'm just too oldso he goes back to his apartmentand I have dinner alone.My apartment looks southto the Liberty Tower,avocado asparagus brussels sprouts.

I get out of bedat 5:45 the next morning.Passing through the living roomon my way to make tea,I glance out at the overcast sky

and there's a nakedyoung womanperforming fellatioon a naked young man(well, he's wearing a blue T-shirt)on the opposite roof.

Someone clever said:"Our eyeballs are evolvedby the sun for the sunto be looked at!"                          What??!!A blow job is undeniably happening,not contingent on me or my eyesight.

My eyesightis not so good.Yet they were as exposed asthe "Princess" who sleeps on the bedand feels the "Pea."

This has not the least relevance,but I'm confused—as in a lightnot as solid as early night,and not as lightas early summer bright,I search for an analogyto this naked surprise

and it's to be outwith a new lover in a restauranttelling him I'm getting into Proust.

"Proust takes analysisbeyond analysis.Proust shows the developmentof masochismin his love-lorn protagonist."

My new loversitting in the restaurant says,"Proust, I'll show you Proust!"And opens up his fly.

I prepare tea in the dark morning.To put on my light would disturb them.I'm going to find my glasses in a minute

—where are my long range glasses?—

to find outif anyone is watching them from the expensivenew apartments way across the way.

I'm not watching.I'm making tea inside my windows.I have the right.

She stands and so does he.Then in an exquisite momentthey bend over each other—

young humansrealizingthey'll never get the whole thingof each other.Accepting, like me,that a part of the human plightis to never get the whole of the otherin plain view sight.

I don't thinkthe teaspoon tinkledor the tea over-sprinkled—

yet, disturbed, they movebehind a water tower,one of those blastedNew York City roof constructions.

In that directionare more windows.Are they fooled only becausethese windows of rich apartmentsare far enough to be farther away?

She's thin ungainly gracefulwith enough self-possessionto retain composure screaming "Fire!"

after waking up in a strange bed.I ascertain this with certaintyas she moves out of sight

and he stumbles afterwith pants around his ankles,showing something to write home aboutfor as he stumbleshis accoutrement sways.

Four cookies and teaare taken to the bedroomwhere I find my glasses.Yes, they are long range.

My bed is up against the window.And her blue leather handbagand his backpackwith a camouflage patternare crucial details of the rectangular world—

the world rectanglemade by the bottom of my windowand the raised six inches of my blind.When they returnthey are stark bollock naked.They dress. And in his pants and T-shirt,he looks smaller youngerwith hands and face bronzed enough

to be the colorof the populaceof the Peloponnesian villageI once visited on a mistaken visitto a mistaken place.

She's stylish in black top and jeans.Maybe she lives in the building.He has a backpack, so lives far off.They kiss goodbye.They leave.

And I'm stuck with this empty roofuntil young men stop wearing Adidas pants.They were Adidas...