Koalas Stream Like Bluebells In Oregon

The last time I saw you, we ate in the sun in a villa near the Ligurian sea.
You spoke of what you had been doing for the past month - which was little more than walking through the heat in Tuscany, over the interplanetary hills and fields - the mounds of endless clay that appear Jupiter-like from the farmlands and horses. cypress tress speculating the horizon, punctuating your tressles.


The last time we soaked in that hot tub at Esalen, staring at the ocean from the cliffs of the sur, the big sur,
I felt you moan in a way that I hadn't felt since we took off to the mountains back in '93 when we took off to avoid the mentality of diamonds,
the triangulation coordination of virulent koalas.

The last time we talked, you said you were going away, that we wouldn't see each other again for another twenty years at least, and by then we would have changed so much that we wouldn't recognize each other anymore, except by smell.