Loros flit among the monkey puzzles,
such private trees for such public birds,
just another thing I have to myself,
the taste of chicory,
the golden eggs of the erizo.
In Cuzco, I escape into the market’s empty stalls,
the tarpaulins’ filtered greens and blues,
trying to imagine you hiding
in the redwoods, somehow purified
by a rumor of sunlight.
We have to meet again someday on open ground
to duel or to love.