There are so many things I could be doing
but I got lost between Hemingway and the sun
when I was on my way to your house.

That’s why I urge you not to worry about currency
or where would be a good place to throw away youth.
Tragedy will find you soon enough.

That’s why it seems I rush to wait,
wait to rush—no telling my coming and going.
Don’t disregard a usual Thursday evening

for fear of your own irregular cycle.
So I urge you to go there: Pamplona, Philippines,
even Palm Harbor—the depths and chambers

of foreign and provincial thirst that
distinguishes us from murderers of now.
Palpitations of pleasures bookmark life!

Set aside the dim light of previous aching,
many nights awash with dancing and drinking,
negatives never fully developed.

Don’t waste your love past midnight
when everyone is asleep. Let them know
that rain does fall on dead things when all

is clear and sound. Learn to say Olé! Olé!
to the sun when absence claims its desert.
Raise your glass to fiesta, scarcity and good fights.

Learn simplicity without shame like immoral
men who show no regret. Stand at the doorsill
of splendor that starts here, wherever you are.