machu picchu

broken down, green and brown
we walk winding trails between fallen walls
with our hot fingertips trailing,
and these yellow flowers wilt at a [touch]

we are surrounded by waves of white clouds that hide
then reveal a broken temple, hide
then reveal the giant steps of the terraced mountains that surround us, hide
then reveal
the long haired llama grazing the grass
as always grew and will regrow

we are 19 and in love
for the moment
with our light looks and our muddled moans
desiring and losing one another [glimpses]
between ruined walls

we play, call this fallen structure a temple, this one a BBQ stand, this a llama store
joke about which one we will choose for our home
and they aren't our homes
they withstood and shall stand
much longer than our fragile shoulders
and our little enormous love.

how long have men been climbing these steps
and breathing out these clouds?
[tissue paper skin]
how much longer will women guess about
what once was and is not here?

such wind spoken mountains conquered briefly
into stairsteps by Inca
reshaped by what was and never again will be Inca
this hot pink cloudforest
still uncaptiv[ated]
by words or pictures
[running up] Waynu picchu
is not expressible through muddy hiking boots
or a photo of the long trail of short orange caterpillars
but the poet in me persists:

on the tallest cliff
you can watch clouds steam off the Urubamba River to swallow
the peaks of the Andes that around you
they slide in and out of view behind clouds
that burn off with the heat of noon
you're not the first to sit here, or the last
you're not the first to be 19 years old and in love
but you never again will be
sitting on a mountaintop 13,000 feet up
beside a man who will grow older, rage,
disappear
and in the wet bubbles of his reflecting eyes now
the old city
rolls in out of focus
behind clouds that come
and go