We strolled along the river under the elms,
marveling that such giants were still alive,

their branches thicker than a woman’s thighs,
or a man’s long-muscled back.

Sadder, yet available to laughter,
never strangers, yet never who we used to be,

you had found love, lost her, found another,
and I wasn’t sure of mine, or mine for me.

Or, this is what we told each other.
Whether we spoke truth or lies,

or had become too wise to know the difference,
one thing was certain:

I flew out of my body into the deep-rooted, dancing,
sweet, savage elms of New York City,

their branches reaching without finding,
finding without reaching…