It was cold that night. I remember the moon -
bright and sad.
And for weeks, we had coffee and walked
through the park-
The park where, in the hot orange of one
September afternoon, I had my hand
between your thighs and we kissed
beside the tree.
* * *
La primera vez que fuimos a España,
tu Mama queríá que dormimos
en cuartos seperados. Y una noche,
cogimos en mi cama y estabamos
hablando hasta las dos.
* * *
There are those pictures of you in Peru, at the
party, with your hair cropped short
at your chin.
* * *
A stream runs by your childhood home,
where empty cans collect and the
sun shines on the hazy water.
All this in a city.
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