My life’s men

Have become like

A series of

Postcards of places

Past filed in

A box called

My heart hidden

In the basement

Of my mind

Sought only when

I’m no longer

Being an explorer

I open it

And look at

Them remembering Curitiba

Or Andes or

Denver or Paris

They each bring

With them memories

Of the mountains

Of shoulders the

Slopes of throats

The bellied pastures

And eyed lakes

Men that have

Been long ago