Trojan Horse
By Octavio R. Gonzalez

Under blue sky wrapped in cellophane,
in the Snowbird mountains, lost
without a companion. 

Love is a tricycle, the Buddhist version
of a triangle.  Picture the rustle
of yellow leaves, backed by pink

and red rock, and a sky bluer than that.
My friend on the other side
whose tongue I’ve tasted

in every vernacular, shuffles his eyes
toward mine.  They do not rest – like a cat
pounces on top of its prey,

poised to play a little game –
let’s be friends again, the wind whispers
longingly.  Altitude under my feet,

hiking among Mormons, praying
in the light of day.  He tastes like you,
growing beard stubble, red-eyed – gorgeous. 

He has nothing to say of his fears
only the skin we’re in allows me to say:
The light passes through the hallway,

I dream of a sky marred by two ravens
flying in unison.  You, my friend
on the other side of the Atlantic,

coasting on pride and quickness,
you fly away, already re-arranged,

your life assumes the change in season.