The only version of us that remains
are the nightly replicas
that appear randomly
as my sole consolation prize.
Last night we visited a country
that was a cross
between Costa Rica and Switzerland.
After a walk through the
banana forests of Zurich,
we could not remember
where the car was parked,
and as we searched,
the streets got narrower
and narrower
and through a sunlit slash
at the end of the road we saw
our children on a passing tram.
They were somehow older than us,
and were trying to brush Lindt
off a white-faced capuchin.
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wow! powerful poem.