Altitude

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—