In Ingolstadt the bed was warm

but the man beneath Egyptian cotton was warmer.

In Ingolstadt I did not fall in love

but fell into evening breeze made beautiful by

Al Green renditions on the violin and too much to drink.

I exhaled Prometheus Dioxide

in Ingolstadt.

In Ingolstadt I felt my hips

and how they seemed to sway with the seasons.

In Ingolstadt I hiked the hills of my earthy chest

and lost my breath because they were so steep.

I wept because I had to keep it inside.

I let my wound fester within me

in Ingolstadt.

In Ingolstadt I hated my body and soul

and wondered how I wrote this wretched thing.

In Ingolstadt I was horrified I was not a godly poet

but a dirty typist so I dropped it on the floor.

I could not look back and wipe up red ink.

I lost control of the people in the keys

in Ingolstadt.