with you, guided by quantum pilotage,
holding hands, hearts pounding.

Long we’ve been gone,
but we're nowhere
near done.

In Amherst,
we heard Her
say something like:

wild
flights,
wild nights,

close calls when
I’m with Thee
dressed to the nines,

at the parade
until the Archduke
is shot and then

speeding away
before it all
goes up in flames.

After a nap, we
wake to fire and
drunkenness

after making love after
making war:
Persepolis burning

snap-decision of our leader,
wasted, like us, and looking
to impress Hephaestion.

One last stop today
homeward bound,
in space and time. We land

after nightfall, tip-toeing,
down Ford’s corridors,
guns drawn, silencers on,

padding, oh so softly, toward
the greenroom of
John Wilkes Booth.

In Amherst, She
postulated that,
perhaps, just

once, we can
defy our Holy
Guide’s One

and Golden Rule:
you can see anything,
but on the condition

that you never
attempt
revisions.