Belgium, 1993

I return to the cobbled street,
where you are telling me
I should work on my French
and asking if I think it will rain.

The sun is just past setting,
and the sky is stilled a shade
of blue it wouldn’t be honest
to call navy or royal. The narcotic

sky makes no promises, but I read
you a poem anyway, a poem written
by a dead man about love. The world
around us is unpronounceable,

and I understand so little of it,
but we walk, arms laced around
each other, to a park with grass
pathways and aging stone walls.

Night feels forever far. When I reach
into my pockets, I find nothing but stars.