from a hotel in Louisville,
I write to the future me
about the past us,
dedicate a museum to love
lost in the fire of time.
sing in blankets
with me south
of nowhere,
north of never,
that perfect place for lips.
we have been living
in poems, filling in
all that we choose
not to write
with committee translations.
the outside world
doesn't know what
it's like in here,
following years,
the best of borrowed muses.