Do you remember who we were
when we were young? Both so sincere
in our misanthropy, the day that we met we agreed
we would rather not know each other, but when
I got drunk and collapsed on the grass
of the consulate, you practically carried me home.
Those were hot days. You read in the sun.
I smoked on the balcony. We drank strong
coffee and told each other long stories.
There were witches on the cliffs where
armed sentinels guarded the night.
X marks the spot. Our paths intersected
and we walked a year's distance together.
We rode the slow sugar train and the ferry,
crossed the forbidden border in the bed of a truck—
traveling from one ruined city to another,
lodging in small, airless rooms.
It was intimate the way we lay
together, never touching our limbs.
Copyright 2016 | Pet Murmur