We set on the mountain
with the sun in pursuit
of new ways of living.
A stupid crush
on a pretty hostel worker who
missed her friends in New York
City, thinking there
must be a word for this--if not
in Spanish then in another
tongue--attraction bound
to momentum like dancing
while constantly picking up
speed.
And will
the wild rivers wash my body
clean? May I set new
clothes ablaze in the equatorial
sunset and drink coffee from between
the shoulderblades of the mountain
like taking the very earth
into my mouth? What little
difference it will make when
the toughest of my new
skin sloughs off crossing
the borders to home.
As in
the moments spent staring
across tables at one another.
Saying: "Is this more
or less real than what
we left behind?"
Not knowing if the answer
lay in the slow blinking
of eyes exhausted
by the raw and
the novel or in the thick
dreamless sleep
that came after.
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