No reason to think of you in Sydney today,
Because we’d never talked about opera.
Except that maybe you were right—
Red doesn’t do much for me.
I’d spend my next question on you,
But you know how the alcohol can be.
Daydreams can’t be predestined anyway,
Just like no one drops a star by staring hard.
The sky doesn’t change anywhere;
I’ve taken pictures to prove it (yes, I proved it).
Cameras aren’t attuned to universality, so
Some are blurred, some see me, some just are.
There’s something called “sensibility.”
I’ve always preferred “travel.”
Here’s to you, from me,
From a series of Pacific pinpoints.
I’m addressing this to the hotel,
Which I think was in Ghent,
That you hung your wool coat in
And didn’t come back for.