We made our sweep for trails of lighted foliage. We waved to warm-chested refugees in cafe corners. This is the dance between currents that blow their way into forgetting with a gloved hand’s caress. They are mine never for the taking, but for the giving away. I am no dreary-eyed stoplight painted onto eyelids, but more a dusted flicker in your window when the sun burgles. A vigil of cupids huddles against the shell of an iris, just wondering at you. I called my dad and gave him good news like bread in baskets. Then we said I love you and goodbye repeatedly in different languages until our voices disappeared.