poetry

Besties

Three days south of the border we passed that dead twisted tree,
followed the creek for a half day under deep skies, came at last to the cave,
our faces streaked with dust and sweat, bright-eyed from the ride
We made a pile of our new riches and swallowed cool mouthfuls of water,
Exchanged glances and grins, laughed at our good fortune

I’ve never told you, but I don’t much care for gold or fine clothes.
There we were, and you said “I’m going to rob a train, by myself”
and I said “By yourself?
Like hell!”

poetry

Our moments

Our moments are not on instagram
Our moments are not pinned on imaginary boards like imaginary butterflies,
lifeless simulacra of life

not posted nor reposted
but they live in the space between updates
unsaved and untagged

Our moments are on film
They come to life in the dark,
grasped between fingers, easily lost or spoiled
but held tightly, like some precious thing
which exists only once,
disappears,
and leaves no trace