I loved you then, mostly for your tacos. They were like
small victories in the second Boer War (or Tweede Vryheidsoorlog).
I read The New York Times for the typos and
occasionally would run,
like a fool I know,
to the feed store to get more tangerines. And nothing could
quench our thirst for history
as explanations drifted through the streets like two discarded newspapers.
My path of snow that runs through night
could it be said that we were in love
she announced to the room as if asking for more salsa
as the television removed its clothes.
And what voices were so busy polishing our eyes
for another day of symmetry where the mountain sleeps?
