What with foresight and dancing, gypsies would seem to pass easily between worlds. The hummingbird too— only a moth with a beak— Have I ever heard it hum? Yet it's everywhere welcome, coaxed by red flowers, even sugar water, for we are devious, in our desires. And the dead, we embody them for our own purposes. I can't talk to a shadow, to an abstraction. A sun worshiper, my brother, always raising his face to it. One touch and the body roar quieted. Now, though I walk the length of the park, he is not there. He is nowhere under the sun. I want the dead but I am with the living. The tulips raise up their hands. The lunch crowd swallows me.
Already, we'd be driving past those trees, that part of the forest. Even briefly, it refreshed you. It was like mint in August though that sting would be gone with summer. The ground tarnishing first, and soon the leaves. I thought then, men don't stop. They want so much to get on. What we said, incidental yet hammered into the mind. Talk like a magnet, so it draws you together or away. We made a line around that part of the forest, the exact shape of our attention. Even after, I remember how it was taken up and moved along with us, into the dim living room. Each holding a glass, ice colliding in water. A tiny mirrored sun caught in the trees. The same sadness that darkened our features. Later, bed without making love, without the chance of a reprieve.