We aren’t hiding anymore when we’re twenty seven.
—One glorious evening, to heaven with cheesecake and wine,
Noisy restaurants with their faint WiFi!
We walk through the gardens of the Getty and watch the sunset.
The blossoms smell good in the good September evenings!
At times the aroma fills the sky and we open our mouths to taste it.
The wind is full of Jazz—the town isn’t far—
Has the smell of cheesecake and wine . . .
There you can’t help but see a splash
Of baby blue, framed by a pink medley,
Pinned up by the morning star, that melts
And gently bows, small and distant in the horizon . . .
Night in September! Twenty seven years old! I’m swallowed up by it all.
The sap is tequila and goes to my head… both of them. . .
We talked until I was breathless and your kiss resuscitates me
Trembling there like a blossom in the garden . . .
Our beating organs move through poems like Romeo,
—When, surrounded by the song of the ocean,
A boy goes by innocent and beautiful
Under the foot of his father’s trembling heel . . .
And as you find him incredibly naïve,
While biting his nails and tapping his toe,
He turns abruptly and in a boisterous way . . .
—Then the mirror cracks before your eyes . .
We are infatuated. Occupied the moment we met.
We are enamored. —Your touch makes me quiver.
All your friends laugh hysterically, it’s too soon.
—Then one evening the man you prayed for holds your hand, and squeezes it gently. . . !
—That evening, . . . —you return to the city,
You ask for cheesecake and water, you no longer drink . . .
—We’re not hiding anymore when we are twenty seven
And when we walk hand in hand at the Getty.