Fresco

You just gone I go over to your place
and sniff at all the clothing. And everything
is so just started, with maybe tomorrow Mexico
and maybe the next day the whole world.
We'll be together then.

I'm not so triste en los ojos. If they
come to your place, and find all the pictures,
they'll have to put together a good story:
This is when we attacked the frescoes in Rome.
This is when I cultivated sugar for your body.

Maybe tomorrow in Mexico we'll carve the shadows
into prettier shapes. One of them could be my father,
too tall like you, explaining icicles to whomever will listen.
One of them could be your sister, out of harm's way.

I go over to your place and your neighbor thinks
I am an intruder. Which I am. I am worming my way
into your plans for tomorrow. Maybe the whole world.
I won't sleep until I know you'll come with me,
and take only what carry-on baggage

makes a good story, or helps us on our way,
or looks beautiful tumbling down a waterfall
as we stand above, laughing at gravity's hold
on all the things we've lived as they fall.
posted by Adam at 1:47 AM [edit]