I would go with you to that tropical country
where there is no extradition, where no one asks
questions about the past, where no one gives
straight answers anyway, where everyone
speaks with accents that conflict with their passports,
where we could throw off our flawless masks,
shed our suits and ties, just fling them beside
the fake hot springs, bury our laptops
in the hot sand like rectangular sea-turtles
laying their leathery eggs and returning to the surf.
I lay aside all my inhibitions, rise from sea foam
fertile, fecund, my frontal lobes undulating
rhythmically as you pluck your ukelele.
I dance the medulla oblongata through the hot night
as my forefathers did; I do the angular gyrus,
dangerous though this is at my age, I do it
because you enjoy it so, because it is a challenge.
I paint pictures of you during the long afternoons,
I sing epics when the light fails, strumming
my plangent dobro until you can bear it no more.