In that hot wrought-iron bed in Budapest
each night, afterwards,
the labor of sculptors and casters and finishers
kept us awake, marveling
the ceiling crafted with gypsum and lime,
sprays of acanthus sixteen feet above
our damp hips and open hands, lilies
out of reach, and dentils, finials,
intricate coffers and cornices,
medallions adorned with delicate scrolls –
all cast and lugged to this address to be
assembled here by those laborers
dusted white with plaster, gummy with hide glue,
mounting scaffolds in the starry blue-black night,
as our eyes began to close,
fastening the lid on love’s asylum.