Ourselves

At paseo in Spain, we pushed

no strollers, had no wails to soothe. |

We slipped through the throng

as dark eyes brooded for us.

What accident or war,

what misspent hour, what surgery,

kept that grand complication from us?

What had frustrated our bringing our flesh

outside our own flesh,

that easiest of all immortalities.

In France, they winked sinfully,

as if we'd discovered the perfect

summer camp to store our encumbrances,

and could steal these hours

hand in hand, a table in the sun,

our faces reddening with wine and lust.

Back here they believe they know us.

Waiting till the car and house are paid for,

or some other hunger has been fulfilled.

In shopping malls their eyes are occupied

with their own bright desires.

We move untethered and unseen among them,

no one to explain things to but ourselves.