Hammocks tend to hang in my nostalgia,
along with wine-flavored kisses
and sunbeams thick with pollen.
Diagonal on a dream-catcher bed
I nap on her back porch
where migratory birds once nested
atop splotch painted columns
and transcontinental planes
scratch the sky
with untouchable sound.
The post-Eden garden
that blankets the backyard
with twisted knots
of photosynthesis and hiding
absorbs city sin,
casting it clean nightly
with reenactments of banishment:
her cat God, tip-toeing through grass;
man a rabbit bloodily deposited
on the kitchen linoleum.
Distraction is biblical
when pendulum swinging
is both a physical
and emotional state,
coming, going, will I return?
The forgotten book on my chest
which flopped in a deep bow
to all things outside the lines
is proof of what I dreamily ignore:
idleness is dangerous,
an error at game over.
Her hello’s curved intonation
hangs in my afternoon song,
a musical note collapsed
upon itself, folded
between consonant and vowel
while cats, dog, and I
wait for the front door to open
and final syllable to drop
from softly puckered lips,
calling us from sleep
with the inward
pull of her rumbling sigh.
LOCATION: Bogota, Colombia
