A mostly true account of looking for Anne Frank's hiding place (And never finding it)

I'm so high,
the Dutch man thinks I'm dying.
I say: I am going to die.
My arms are like steel beams,
bent at the center,
my bag is a bookcase,
a dead man, a hundred pounds a least.
I fall into a corner,
and he vanishes.

The next day, we eat strawberries
in bed, we eat brownies,
I wash another man's sweat
from my breasts, we dance
on the streetcorner.

The whores look on.
They think we're lost.
They think we're looking for a poplar.
We've been searching all day
for the streetcorner, a sign.
I'm so high,
I'm scared of a mural.

In the park we stand, backs against the wall,
childish grins, waiting to be shot.
A dog flees past, and then another.
You tug on the red scarf
around my neck, and we're running,
running madly for the train--
we've left behind cans of olives
and bread and cookies,
great aromatic hunks of cheese,
cards from your mother
aflame in the jacuzzi,
all the towel warmers gone cold.

We run to those tracks
to wait for the train,
so high on each other's own hairs and freckles,
the shots in the club,
the bars of white flowers,
we almost run to Vienna then, to Paris,
we forget our birth months,
the return trip, gestapo,
we're so high you wear your sunglasses
while sleeping, I kick the Russian woman
on the train, accidentally, I'm an animal,
her son reading stupidly, so high,
the wheat outside, and steel,
and orchards, the birds gliding,
the whole death whistle,
wild hills and pastures,
the crumbled brick and clotheslines running,
we're all laughing now, hysterically,
the ancient ways,
we're holding hands and screaming,
we're flying, flying, the blue air
so high above us
I could die an extra death.