walking together across the three bridges, hand
in hand, six years apart
against the lenses staring into his blue grey
white eyes, hands on the glass, looking in
him looking out beyond me, beyond the
bridges, beyond the lyubliana, past,
into, beyond, looking
we’d walk and laugh, over the bridges, three
bridges, laugh about being fools, benign fools.
about dug mudded clams, and rockweed, hard
hands. we’d talk about the hay and
turnips back home, fresh figs in the
market as we waked past the small
cafe street city
and i’d sing his books in my head,
great italian ghost tour, gondola into open
water, trips to japan, now, now or never, great
ambassador in my morning, sleeping
morning. waiting on the bridge
holding hands, he’d ask why i came
he’d work my thoughts, sickle my
ideas, thresh my reason
at home he stands on the hard
coast, naked, bearded, arms
stretched, belly out
yelling...
barbarian. child. free.
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