Under a Spanish arch
Old friends embrace us.
Street greetings are familial.
Here a hug is not distrusted.

With Mexican chillies we warm
Our mouths, and mango juice
Drips down our fingers.
We sip Salubrious tea of manzanilla.

Minstrels seranade under balconies
Draped with flags of bougainvilla.
Across the street in the cantina
A jukebox plays us to sleep.

Crossing the old courtyard
Of an abandoned chapel fragrant
With luminous cups of gold,
We are not ashamed to hold hands.

Firemen in red helmets
Drag hoses close
To a bonfire draped with evergreens.
Smiling priests beckon
Parishioners to wash their hands
And rinse their mouths at springs.
Like ibis lifting white
Wings, black-hatted holymen
Raise waterfall sleeves,
Bow, intone, and chant.

They loft arrows to four
Compass points over temple
Roofs. Inflaming cupids,
They pierce the heart of the pyre.
A torch, temple ignited,
Is paraded to climactic union with fresh-cut cedar swags.
Smoke blossoms and billows
As laughing priests ladle
Water onto greens. Smoke

Tickles the nostrils of the gods
Until fiery tongues, erupting
Arouse a passionate inferno
Consuming the proffered prayersticks.
Ejaculating heavenward the petitions
Of another Golden Week.
An ocean away, on a cloudless
Mountain top, a radio
Telescope listens for replies
From other bubbles of the universe.