astoria
with limbs and sheets we build a fort.
a maroon light licks our foreheads
as we struggle to arrange our bodies inside;
on the center of the mattress,
in the middle of his bedroom,
on the second floor of a building,
in the beginning of astoria.
astoria, astoria, astoria.
we’ll write a story:
a bird and a prince
both rootless yet heavy.
he will search for india
and anonymity,
she will search for a shoulder
to perch on
and continuity.
and the sheet will become a roof
that holds up a ceiling
of a house in a town
where these two
characters are living.