When you are twenty-seven
And at last done Done DONE with medical school
We should do a marathon/festival of words
Reciting poetry to each other
Then writing off of the lines of Neruda, Szymborska
And reading our own with the gusto of our multitudes
Recovering our most treasured letters, emails, postcards
I reading yours to you
You reading mine to me
Resuming those long Bolaño novels we once prudently put aside
Interrupting each other every 14 pages or so
Con cháchara (yo) y profundidad (tú)
Fueled with Ghiradelli Squares
Surrounded by daisies, irises, Scottish broom
For the better part of a day we’re lazy, elastic, laughing
