Evening

A driver holds open
the limo door as a diplomat
steps in. Closer
to the center a man leans over the edge of an upper
balcony and shakes out his pink
duvet. What is he hoping

will drift loose: a single lost eyelash,
the memory of her body, or does he only
wish to capture, as in a net, the early
evening air? Perhaps she waits
inside. The diplomat
must wait much longer

to find his own sheets. The driver
waits outside the embassy, and looks
through the windows on the street:
some men watch porn movies on
their large screens; some men make
love (real-time) on their small beds. It is the

fractions of moments
that stay with us: how he touches
her right eyebrow, her left
collarbone; how he turns
the dial on his car radio searching
for the latest love song.