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This is where the typhoon starts—
inside the fourth paragraph,
ten city blocks away,
where the neurosurgeon halfs
La Celestina, where you occupy
the spot under that Tiffany lamp,
where Edgar Rice Burroughs laughs,
where sugar cane is thigh
high, where you apply lipstick,
where the address numbers
are transposed, where hearts
take on airs of Parisian avenues,
where Mexican silver coins
are exchanged for salt, where
there is no fine line between art
and pornography, where the big
gingerbread boy answers
to the name of Alfredo, where you
take that moment to adjust
to my poem, where the metaphor
escapes from your throat.
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