We catch ourselves
saying we can never go back
across the bridge
into the sun-drenched thickets.
But the smell of pink tangerines
brings us here again,
on the border of no return.
We eat on the side of the road.
The old music hasn't lost its zip.
The dust rises and falls as we dance,
our skin gleaming.
I have wronged you right,
all of these years.
You step away giggling,
trying to convince me
I can change the way I see
the dying flow of the landscape.
You have already turned,
loving
my hands exploring,
like we have never been here before.
All the world is green.
The city looming in the distant smog
and fire.
Published in Chronogram Magazine- June 26, 2008
