Shimmering with prescient possibility
we stole a truck to drive our suitcases
up a mountain in a Filipino jungle.
Your grandfather, still dressed for snow,
waited summit-side to buy the truck
for fifty dollars and a wink.
Earlier, my mother was a black man
nursing coffee in a diner. We ducked,
running past the windows, hearts in throats.
Other absurdities also shift
at the edges of a half-pale morning
obscured by curtains.
Lover! I’ve traveled somewhere strange!
(You linger in the fog of your own
somnambulant adventures, unimpressed.)
My night’s technicolor is incommunicable.
The vague taboo pops on my tongue
with singular, spectacular flavor.
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