We were in Berlin — I had no one,

not a reference of the once war torn

country now in their most

progressive era, Berghain and The Lab

thousands of miles away from us.

 

In those days, yes, I could dream

with my eyes alert, two dark grapes

begging for closure. I dreamed

mostly with Christian, then, in his dark

 

bedroom with the blinds drawn and thumping

house music and two men tearing each other

apart. We imagined big those days:

the candelabra, a stick of gold, talking

birds, and a beautiful man feeding us

 

seedless red grapes. The mind was a luxury

to have, and, the flesh, but a vehicle

spitting snow. Yes, we wanted better.

No, we weren’t going away. Bacchus,

in the corner, empty-handed and weeping.

 

Barely, can I keep my eyes open he said.

The strange syntax of the sentence

concerning to the hearing of the heart.

Dream I said. The music and men, still going.

For what felt like hours, our eyes were closed