At thirteen I am competing with James Joyce,
encouraging pain, at the very least discomfort.

And here you are slid from the rain
under my door, “s” -ing along the cool
checks in the hallway.

What is here for us but these walls and the
pearls of sweet yearning behind them

The earth cracks and we are left
with the same shared moon.
She peers through my lattice window
and hides behind your city’s smoke.
 

 The neighbor is a devout woman.
 She bakes bread and lights candles

I’ve got all this money lying around.
Have you got anything you can do with it?

What fell between an abrupt shower
and a sky’s attitude was your memory.

Colleagues munching bap and burger
thought Ramadan was that juicy winger,
his scorching pace soon snaffled up by City.