On the tracks of a railway that ends in the Artic Sea
when the Aurora is overhead and the North Star twinkles
Behind the five-inch stilettos of the Chinese pianist
who plays Russian music at the Philharmonie Berlin
Atop the arched entrance of the white crypt
where they buried Franz Liszt under black marble
Under the floors of the home of your old friend in San Francisco
Where the pipes carry crystal toward the worst restaurant downtown
At the last post of the first barbed-wire fence in Texas
cut by cattlemen heading north across the prairie
Inside the sauce-jar wherein you tried to pickle turnips
last New Year's Eve when the wi-fi went down
and we missed watching the ball drop
and toasted the hour with peach seltzer
and we booked a flight to anywhere
on New Year's Day.
At home, in the armchair you refuse to remove despite the frayed corners –
our best memories await there
