In a time-zone all our own,
we were a bubble of the past,
a cleanser upon the last sentence of history.
Lazing through tangled medieval lanes
we offered everyone a do-over, a mulligan,
and as time flowed backwards to greet us
we imagined the world transformed—
gashes were healed by knives,
seatbelts were remembered,
nets of salmon effervesced the ocean,
bombs rebuilt cities, swallowed firestorms.
M16s sucked bullets from the resurrected,
disease brought health, everyone got younger,
showers lifted poison from innocent lungs,
refugees returned home to their flats,
their huts, their wigwams, and
here, in the port of Barcelona,
galleons ballasted with gold
set a course for the Aztecs.
They returned with unused blankets.
In our little mythology,
history was not to be feared.
We listened to the metronome
of the Mediterranean, waved to Odysseus,
the clockwork of a spoon in coffee
held the timing of a galaxy.
Long before the moon cut a calendar
or the sun shadowed the rhythms of sleep,
we watched an apple fall up, into a tree—
two famous lovers strolled along,
their wrists as naked as ours.
Copyright Patrick Hicks 2008
