S a o   P a u l o  ( s a i n t  p a u l )

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Every Hyatt smells the same. You walk from the toilet, a little more

aware you have left a zip open, or splashed the linen of your trousers.

There are lights everywhere the sun doesn't mind. In the lift,

which doesn’t register your weight, you recognise in the mirror the signs

you are dying faster: feeling the alien heart of a phone

in your pocket you accidentally answer the call. The voice turns

out familiar. A so called friend demanding you to meet. You ask —

why are you calling now, it’s late — but — as they insist

— this is your regular reply. Ok you reply — because you’re not thinking

about having sex, just the chance that a door might open — and later

at the old school bar with rows of bottles polished every night,

the waiter greets you with a smile he's been finishing for decades:

foreskin wrung of its final drops — the dead white shine

of porcelain — absorbed into deep blue chlorinated stone.