Somewhere in Northern Italy, 1983
Oliver and Elio
taste each other
in the sticky apricot summer.

They suck on the pits and spit.
Afterwards
they soak themselves in the river
and hop on their bikes.

Light is always filtered
through waggling trees.
Loose linen shirts are
always unbuttoned, sliding off.

It’s all very heartbreaking,
falling in love with someone’s body.
Elio,
an easy name to whisper,
ends up crying by a fireplace.

After the movie ended at the Paris Theater
4 W 58th St. New York, New York
I walked into the bathroom and avoided eye contact
with the crowd of 60-plus penises.

On 58th Street
I grinded snowgrit into
the black marble
and looked for the Subway.

I had dreamed of New York in the snow before.
I had dreamed of boys before.
The soft fantasy of
chest
stomach
chin.

Everything shimmered in my mind.
Now, my nose hairs were frozen.

I thought about
Elio fucking a peach,
the whole soaked movie,
my own chest patchy,
almost connecting.

Later,
in a weak moment
I let
Nicanor Parra
put his hands on me

He whispered: Believe me,
Not being an idealist at 21
means you have no heart.
To go on dreaming into your 40s
means you don’t have a head.