An apartment with no roof over the bedroom?

Que idiota! Didn’t you notice before you moved?

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Inez clucked—she’d never seen the like, not even here

in Mexico City, where whole neighborhoods are patched

together with silly putty and cardboard cutouts of TV stars.

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So you’ll learn to garden indoors, she decided. Well,

at least the electricity works, and the bugs aren’t bad,

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and on clear nights, the impossible sky is stretched out

for my own private enjoyment, right above my bed,

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a postage stamp of cosmic pin-pricks that has become

so familiar it makes my body feel like a proxy

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deposited nightly between cinderblock walls

while visions of eternity unravel above.

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We’ll spend hours in bed watching bellies of jets

glide by, always a little ahead of their engine’s roar.

Inez helps me count the seconds in between, and

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when it rains, I move the bed and try not to

walk between the kitchen and the living room

or even go to the bathroom, but I’ve taken to

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wearing flip flops and splashing through anyway.