my god! i’m trapped in a far too small car with far too many people. they’re talking about diamond rings that no longer slide over swollen knuckles and precious arty house and garden tours and somebody’s grandmother’s recipe for an unpronounceable andalusian bread and i’m boiling, dressed all in black like a crow or a widow, wondering why i am where i am instead of lying in your arms under our springgreen tree deep in the forest, that sacred secret pond not ten feet from us awaiting the splash of our steaming bodies that never seem to cool down after the fierce hot fucking we practice again and again, always sure it can’t get better but somehow it always does. wait – that’s a dream. soon i’ll be walking on concrete, hemmed in by dead imposing edifices, monuments to coin and commerce; elbowed by impatient hostile natives who give no quarter to visiting dreamers lost in the fiery coals of a mind stoked by nothing but visions of you.