The trees were soon hushed in the resonance
 of darkest emerald as we rushed by
 on 322, that route that took us from
 the dead center of Pennsylvania.

 (a stone marks it) to a suburb ten miles
 from Philadelphia. "A hummingbird",
 I said, after a sharp turn, then pointed
 to the wheel, still revolving in your hand.

 I gave Emily Dickinson to you then,
 line after line, complete from heart. The signs
 on Schuylkill Expressway fell neat behind us.
 I went further: "Let's pretend your city

 is Evanescence - There has to be one -
 in Pennsylvania - And that some day -
 the Bird will carry - my letters - to you -
 from Tunis - or Casablanca - the mail

 an easy night's ride - from North Africa."
 I'm making this up, I know, but since you
 were there, none of it's a lie. How did I
 go on? "Wings will rush by when the exit

 to Evanescence is barely a mile?"
 the sky was dark teal, the moon was rising.
 "It always rains on this route", I went on,
 "which takes you back, back to Evanescence,

 your boyhood town". You said this was summer,
 this final end of school, this coming home
 to Philadelphia, WMMR
 as soon as you could catch it. What song first

 came on? It must have been a disco hit,
 one whose singer no one recalls. It's six,
 perhaps seven years since then, since you last
 wrote. And yesterday, when you phoned, I said,

 "I knew you'd call," even before you could
 say who you were. "I am in Irvine now
 with my lover, just an hour from Tuscon
 and the flights are cheap." "Then we'll meet often."

 For a moment you were silent, and then,
 "Shahid, I'm dying". I kept speaking to you
 after I hung up, my voice the quickest
 mail, a cracked disc with many endings,

 each false: One: "I live in Evanescence
 (I had to build it, for America
 was without one). All is safe here with me.
 come to my street, disguised in the climate

 of Southern California. Surprise
 me when I open the door. Unload skies
 of rain from distance drenched arms." Or this:
 "Here in Evanescence (which I found - though

 not in Pennsylvania - after I last
 wrote), the eavesdropping willows write brief notes
 on grass, then hide them in shadows of trunks.
 I'd love to see you. Come as you are." And

 this, the least false: "You said each month you need
 new blood. Please forgive me, Phil, but I thought
 of your pain as a formal feeling, one
 useful for the letting go, your transfusions

 mere wings to me, the push of numerous
 hummingbirds, souveniers of Evanescence
 seen disappearing down a route of veins
 in an electric rush of Cochineal."