shall we dig up this new asphalt
poured over scurrying footprints,
tear up the leaves
that variegate those old shadows,
stir the strange air that blows over
our long ago dreams?
I measured it once,
eighteen steps from my gate to yours,
secrets still buried safe
where they were spilt,
behind the bougainvillea,
orange in the flickering neon light;
an inverted memory box,
this street filled with sunset shavings,
with eyes brighter than Venus
or Mercury, we never could tell,
with ribbons of longing
undone in its long plaited hair;
how many colours
can a word contain?
how much angst did a whisper hold?
how many promises
punctuated the years
until half past childhood?