I have learned not to question
where I find you.
Bent over the fire-escape, vomiting
into the alley where I ran after you
that night last year. I still ask myself why we walked
from Kendall to the Pru? If I could remember,
I’d remember walking upon water
to cross the Charles, your footsteps
sending small splashes to frighten the fish
Your flask a fountain, if we ever ran low
I’d follow the sound of faint humming. Often
it is Charlie Parker or Lady Gaga, the moment
knows no sense of propriety.
And still, after twenty-six years we have learned things.
Like how to tolerate hot water in July, or
how to fly a kite while sleeping sound.
Often I am that flat rock skipping
toward the center of a pond;
I am sinking and floating. This must be
how flying fish and water striders feel.
Meet me past the gate of the gardens,
my shadow and I get along great
now that the winter has died.