Breakfast at the Infinity Hotel
—Ask me: what would happen
if there were infinity more hotel rooms
—and inside them, infinity more versions
of us? Would each couple still drift
between the sheets like passing taxis
—ordering room service under the pseudonym
—we’re so bad? Yes it’s great to be dripping
midnight oil around your navel
but there are other uses for it. It descales
—the eyes like a dream. Last night, slammed
—shut as a clamshell, you nuzzled my tattoo
of a fishbowl – why isn’t there a fish?
you asked as I let you drink its water
—the water that sustains the rooms above us
millions of you
—sagging in the gutter
——of millions more of me.
Used with kind permission of Rebecca Bird and Eyewear Publishing.