The Tourist Bride

At the end of the night a poisonous star
Rises above Petersburg like a cancer-spot.

Cats, fevered, untranslatable,
Go long ways for secrets and fish heads.

Amorists hide in the alcoves
Of the swollen city, guarding their possessions;

I feel the feral marble machine of my heart
Leak mercury, my veins warm

When I hear two lovers twittering
In the chalice of their arms . . . There is something

Deliciously final about you, she says,
I cannot say what it is.

I cannot say who you are, he says,
Remind me.