False Icons

That night, we were holy.

Bathed in incense, leaking out the window

of your fifth story walk up

in the East Village, the

summer breeze carrying with it the

sounds of sirens and deep bass,

river breezes: the warmth

surrounding us, baptizing

us with the sweat of humidity

and being too close; enough to

feel our breath and deep surges

while we made vows to one another.

whispered at first and

then proclaimed before

the congregation of candles, for

just us. alone.

That night. Divine.

resurrected in memories

and when the nag

champa smoke mixes with

the smell of the East River,

processing in faintly through the

tiny place in Brooklyn I’ve

worshiped you, forgotten,

all these years.

 

 

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