Swirling, often accompanied by purple winds;
Bending our forms sashaying through sand,
We’d disappear and live off plants, animals,
and whole grains.
There’d be carpets and magic and music!
Desperate (you and I) to embrace
To hold, to kiss, to wet the very spring of dry
With our youth.
In the steam of our wet tent, the only
Source to read the inscriptions on the walls
Would be seen by the light in your eyes.
(Which I’d compliment.)
Cut off from everything common;
Comfort would come on our own terms:
Bathing from a basin—
The water pouring over your shoulder—pale middle eastern tan;
Almost simmering on your skin.
Tea would be drunk—discussing
the brotherly love of hyenas.
Our own nature channel. A warm pause
Would ensue on your last thought
“Finding water saves the dying young.”
Seeing the earth move slow, while you
Spin around my heart, orbiting like so many of Jupiter’s moons;
Knitting mine to yours,
No longer knowing when yours stops or mine starts.
Though I am older, you will be the first to go;
Sold into slavery for a couple of ewes and rams.
The well, which so often gave life to our insides sticky,
Now in the hands of another;
As if your body and now oppressed life,
Echoing our broken dreams—as we echo
The survival of hyenas:
Like a good short sentence from a short story by Hemingway.
But, we don’t live in the desert, do we.
We don’t even live in the same town.
The coffee I drink may remind me of you,
But you’ll never see the effect it has on my memory;
And I’ll never get to see you bring the cup to your mouth.