Typhoon Signal No. 1

This is where the typhoon starts— inside the fourth paragraph, ten city blocks away, where the neurosurgeon halfs La Celestina, where you occupy the spot under that Tiffany lamp, where Edgar Rice Burroughs laughs, where sugar cane is thigh high, where you apply lipstick, where the address numbers are transposed, where hearts take on airs of Parisian avenues, where Mexican silver coins are exchanged for salt, where there is no fine line between art and pornography, where the big gingerbread boy answers to the name of Alfredo, where you take that moment to adjust to my poem, where the metaphor escapes from your throat.