Love Poem About A Ceiling

In that hot wrought-iron bed in Budapest
each night, afterwards, the labor
of sculptors and casters and finishers
kept us awake, marveling the ceiling
crafted with gypsum and lime, sprays of acanthus
sixteen feet above our damp hips and
open hands, lilies out of reach, and dentils,
finials, intricate coffers and cornices,
medallions adorned with delicate scrolls—
all cast and lugged to this address to be
assembled here by those laborers dusted
white with plaster, gummy with hide glue,
mounting scaffolds in the starry blue-black night,
as our eyes began to close,
fastening the lid on love’s asylum.

Leaving Andalusia

We’ve crossed latticed shadows
of cork and olive trees,

toured bodegas, cathedrals,
pueblos blancos carved in hillsides,

whiffed blossoms sprung
off painted pots hooked on stucco walls

on ribbons of street the width
of a swift’s wingspan—

centuries of ruin and mosaic,
cupolas gilded in apricot light,

basins of holy water, tiles,
stalactites, remains—

Thus, the eve of leaving,
folding maps, shaking sand from socks,

I’m lulled by the children, bent
over squares of paper cloth, hands

rollicking markers, drawing closely—
little girl and boy, just for a little while.