Nippy insects never before noticed,
crinkles of the day's crust
before the eye became the secret it hid.
You and I in New Complex 3, crashing
the lice of ignorance, words of riot, like we were
starting a new language, married to teeth
learning to greet, before the grit
of strangeness evaporated and we were revealed
one for the other.
That train to Mutare, then the bus to Bulawayo,
to emerge years later, we could never have guessed,
on the Delta King, sliding down Sacramento River,
you tilting your head in the Titanic breeze,
telling no dreams, nothing much to celebrate,
only blisters on the skin of experiment.
That train perhaps never left Harare
and the Christmas Pass ravines on your cheeks
are what I imagine when I look
at what might have been possible
had New Complex 3 never happened.
The train took off; Dangamvura splashed and breathed—
we arrived in Highlands, Bulawayo, even before the sun
greeted its wife. And miles from New Complex 3
we sealed the deal that finds us
now in Chevys on Garden Highway, Sacramento.
crinkles of the day's crust
before the eye became the secret it hid.
You and I in New Complex 3, crashing
the lice of ignorance, words of riot, like we were
starting a new language, married to teeth
learning to greet, before the grit
of strangeness evaporated and we were revealed
one for the other.
That train to Mutare, then the bus to Bulawayo,
to emerge years later, we could never have guessed,
on the Delta King, sliding down Sacramento River,
you tilting your head in the Titanic breeze,
telling no dreams, nothing much to celebrate,
only blisters on the skin of experiment.
That train perhaps never left Harare
and the Christmas Pass ravines on your cheeks
are what I imagine when I look
at what might have been possible
had New Complex 3 never happened.
The train took off; Dangamvura splashed and breathed—
we arrived in Highlands, Bulawayo, even before the sun
greeted its wife. And miles from New Complex 3
we sealed the deal that finds us
now in Chevys on Garden Highway, Sacramento.
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