Honey and Bacon

My friend and I talk
around our desire,
fearing it's not real -
fearing it is.

We skate across the frozen
lake of our past;
we speak fondly, remembering
ourselves in that foreign country -
wondering if one truly does not forget
how to ride a bicycle.

We give one another honey
and bacon
and Chinese poetry from the '70s.

Postcards arrive, and
are examined for hidden meanings.

I recall his shampoo
and the cut of the hair on the back of his neck.
He recalls a scar now faded,
no longer remarkable.

We live alone, and far away.
I could visit -he has an extra room
upstairs.