Fluorescent teeth form the entrance, greet us
and swallow. Since I've been in Melbourne,
I haven't had dreams where my teeth fall out
or someone socks me in the jaw. We're told to act

“less American.” I ask a eucalyptus tree for advice.
The sky is cotton-grey; we see the highway
from the apex of the Ferris wheel. Lisa takes photos
with her thumb on the lens. She rests her head
on my wool-cushioned shoulder. I throw
un-popped kernels to the asphalt, hope for a ruckus
of pigeons: birds that know nothing
but hunger. The sky is a lampshade that dims
above Melbourne. The sunlight departs,

tangles with the curtains in a New York bedroom,
just as someone dear wakes to shoulder the day.