We ride our rusted bikes towards
the pointed sea, across
dirt paths with old cars
and doors in the ground—
mine, faded green, without handles
that I hold onto the turning spokes of
my traveling wheel
and yours, sturdy, wide
turning the course of the ocean that
shines azul in the somnolence of day.
We stop for tea with
Indigo, and
she with beautiful ocean eyes
in an old caravan painted blue
with tables veiled in cloth.
An old lady asks to see the
hands of my brother:
"They are soft, gentle," says she
And I, jealous for a moment he has
gone first
Jealous of my room in which he
now sits
I slide back, somehow knowing the world
rows on despite my grievance, somehow
knowing things change.
But a picture of us two, us dear
and unassuming
Laughing with head scarves and sun shades
and dripping cones of ice
All is well in our technicolor world
All is fine within our dream
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