And I remember the poets,
the bronze busts lining the path,
and with so few words to rely on –
unable at least to distinguish between
their work and their reputation –
remaining complicit in that silence.
But the living here were intent
on different accommodations
and we resided too in a reunion:
whatever history there was
accumulated in every word –
a friendship coming into focus
as we walked through that heat
and did what we could in photographs
of our jet-trail coincidences –
the ones which brought us up and out
of where we’d been before –
the words which were understood
no matter what the language.
