These memories move more at night,
When the cradle moon hangs low over the sea,
Leaving its luminous path
To a kind of glory that may never come.

The train-whistle echoes in the lonely night,
Carried on the open arms
Of moonbeams that invite us in,
Caressing the pines with indifference;
Reminding me of the nomad my heart has become.
Seeking a cure for its malaria,
Grasping at this fleeting peace.

“El corazon,” the painter sings.
The canvas and his suffering.
This heart wanders the dark
And dank alleys of the past,
Where pools of nostalgia run down the gutters
And gather in the ruts.  
Some of these pools run deep.

And far below your wreckage rests;
Sleeping ships of ghosts and gold.

We ponder the impossible,
Wanting all things palpable made malleable.
I’ve never been drunk on defeat before.
We will blunder our way to the high road,
Letting whiskey footsteps guide us home.