You've just died in my arms, But suddenly it seems we're eternal Cali boys, Afro-haired cohorts in crime, Racing through intricate lattices Of quince and lemon tree shadows, Corridors of Queen Anne's lace— On the skip-church Sunday you dubbed me "Sir Serious" instead of Cyrus— Then, swift as a deer's leap, we're devotees Of goatees and showy Guatemalan shirts, Intoxicated lovers for a month On the northwest coast of Spain— Praising the irrepressible sounds Of a crusty Galician bagpiper On La Coruña's gripping finisterre, Then gossiping and climbing (Like the giddy Argonauts we were) The lofty, ancient Roman lighthouse, All the way—Keep on truckin', we sang— To the top of the Tower of Hercules— Copyright © 2019 by Cyrus Cassells. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 30, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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