I gather lilies, set them on the bed
where you are absent. Gone.
Going up, going down, inside
a hotel elevator with a stranger
brushing his groin against your hand.
Yes, stuck with another man
pushing his arm against your elbow.
You slip away with him into a corridor
until you reach a door that he opens.
You enter, let him take off your clothes,
while I wander about the house, looking
for you in the geometry of our bed,
with the fear of one who just arrived
to his first unrehearsed death.