Suppose we made amends and I came to live in you,
your main artery clogged with meandering
lovers, your street-veins sheathed with vendors,
your sidewalks, capillaries carrying people and other
waste products to their domestic or commercial
destinations. You are the part that never sleeps;
there is always something to do in you, wherein lies
your danger. Your heart beats a bass that tempts
too much, beckoning me to a farm-turned-street,
a synagogue for Greeks or bakery that serves music,
more of your topsy-turvy, upper-lower jokes.
Suppose we made amends and I came to live in you.
I will pay to live in a spacious, airy lung but wind up
in your cramped bowel. You know that’s right,
but the idea of living in you intrigues me still.
In your tiny corpulence, life is boundless.