How simple it seemed that spring, with a quart of green
cactus milk between us, on the ferry from Naxos
to Crete, when the moon was the one clock, and stars
only had gums. And the summer in Barcelona
when the French children actually cried at the sight
of my dreadlocks. I used to think, if we kissed
in every time zone, it would always be the blue hour
in which I loved you. It still is.
~From Meeropol, Jeffrey McDaniel
No comments:
Post a Comment