hundreds of thousands of bubbles spill over the rim of the glass my lover drinks from. Of course, I love this about the bar, the way they pour beer too fast so the foam comes up heavily, all at once. Possibility requires mess, someone had said to me once. I was thinking of a topiary garden outside a small French town where every statue is given a partner. They said, as I have imagined, they are positioned to look away from each other to make some commentary on desire, as if its virtue is tied up in its allotment. I don’t think that’s the point I’m trying to make here. It was cold enough for us to become one body out of necessity. The rain came down on the metal roof of this bar and it sounded like laughter. Maybe one day, when we visit the garden, we could give each statue a name. Bottlerocket. Cappuccino. A Stray, Hopeful Cat. Je suis à vous. In a way, I can convince myself of so many things. Everyone is good. All the bubbles will stay there. I wish I could say it, how the rain was a gate opening.
