Where does the world leave its dying heat? On the Lido, in the stone and stucco courtyards? Does it create mechanic pressures among the city's darkened swirls? One day the gifts we bought will remind us of arriving in an early morning rain, of that balcony, and of an argument we had behind its beveled glass doors. If we had acted like we belonged, no one would have asked us for our tickets.

Some call it a station but he knows it's a terminal. The train falters in another state, so he swallows and waits until the new pills are proved upon his pulse. He believes his watch is about to burst. The platform is crowded with petals, the tracks hum with a distant approach, and welding sparks lift a small awning of yellow light above two workmen in the tunnel's gloom. He saw this and knew he had become the ticket-of-leave apostle.

I unwrapped a new thesaurus and looked up a synonym for the word desicate but I ended up feeling sad because every word was chained to another. The toxin bled through the old school halls; neon stained snow fell forever in the streets outside.

Meeting in rooms. Look at my sofa, listen to my lamp. I live here in an ice-age marriage to my open floor. No one prepares you for this. You get booklets, brochures, and hints from other tourists, but nothing helps. When I turned the dial to the left, there was a rumba; when I turned right, it was cha-cha-cha, but your purple-heart treason has worn my footwork down to a walk.

Covered in smoke, buried beneath a painted cowboy-sky, the sun roars through your hair. You once lived a magazine life, then you entered the pedestrian crosswalk that stilled you. Come to me, speak through my microphone scars and soon we will be such lovers I will be able to hear you tanning on the roof. You will smuggle my complaint across your border and we will finally begin to burn where it counts.