I found you nude, rilassante
in a loosely painted mural
in a side room
in this faded hotel.
I knew you at once
from photographs in books
years back
when you and your painter friend
wrote long letters home
scrawled with flowers
and lizards
and Italian adjectives
d’amore.
And now, like you
in the breakfast room
I drink juice
and my glass
through lace
reflects sea light
in waves—
all anomalous diamonds
on my hands
and the potted palms
and the ceiling’s painted dome
and I work half-hearted
on my own
letters home
then fold them away,
people-watch, zone,
brush errant pastry flakes
from my lap, my lips, my hair,
push back
my chair
and go.