when a silver line separates your flying nose from the light,
when the saturnine mildew
that once flowed out from your melancholy tongue
to my hapless, gorging, supercilious soul,
accrues within like powdered butterflies.
when the thatch and the caribbean blue
fail to withstand or wash away
the languid opacity of your frostbitten brownian gaze.
Remember the season of mangos and scotch.
when we burrowed through a tiny mouse
and discovered a lush mountain.
And an unbounded promise felt down to the trembling knees.
But most importantly, remember, even in the coldest blizzard
the summer is never dead, the song is still being sung,
and the woods and lawns are still shamelessly lascivious,
only on the other side of the imaginary circle you've named the equator.
