Philia

We're not prehistoric ruins fossilized                        
under rocks or earthed in sacred burial                        
tombs under Chinese restaurants                        
filled with pigment and Peking Duck.                        
We're young under this stretched sinew.                          
                         
We could be blind, stillborn, and still our                          
genetics, twisted within the molecular helix                          
of DNA would gravitate toward us to congeal                          
blood into a temperature flux like a star meeting                          
her season a million miles from origin.                        
                         
I remember an atelier and writing desk                        
evenings before decades divided centuries                          
into millenniums of it. We needed distance                          
to validate the repetition of experience                        
and cultivate genealogy from the diālis.                          
                   
Tell me, mi antiguo amor, do you remember    
what we pledged before we left the pod?                          
                         
Love survives war like words, and death.                        
                         
There is no past that can't repair the pianola                          
for another dance. Maybe the atmosphere                          
will change; the long range future dictates                          
a gentler history. I'm weary of the Gregorian                          
repeating itself every 400 years. Aren't you?                        
                   
Here, let's sit this one out on the terrace                          
and ruminate about how long we've danced                          
or how many partners we dipped. The weather                    
is nice; let's order a drink, toast to Ankh                    
and the timeless presence of you and me.                          
                         
~