we walked. we found a trail of fossilized bread crumbs on the dry manhattan grounds. you tip-toed merrily through them, whistling whistling:
just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.
you, the wickerman, arms lagging, dragged along your machine gun (knuckles scraping the ground); i trailed behind, feather-flicking and smelling the death of tomorrow and transforming every green thing into wrought iron.
we found it---the trampled-down, junkyard version of la agua de vita.
a sister tributary, more like; sprung from a cadaverous well.
and there, we made our memorial--- our ephemeral dedication, we drew sigils in the air and practiced playing indians in red scarves and collapsing hats.
we held hands; i put my head in your lap and drank in your softness;
we pressed our faces close, and your mouth communicated the peligrosa effervescing of sourbright cherries.
the photo-box clicked its teeth.
on the way back, you, named the reasons on your hennaed fingers: why we could never be.
stupidly, blindly, i laughed, unaware that you were maybe trying to tell me something
or, then again, you were only convincing yourself
and with my gullible laugh you pushed that snuffbox back into its drawer.
