We pondered the popular myths of our childhood,
large and small, the blurred and grainy image
of Bigfoot walking through the woods,
considered whether to spend our weekly allowance
on those X-ray glasses or sea monkeys
advertised in the backs of our comic books,
those other worlds of myth and muscle,
where humanity, which had been so foolish,
was always saved at the last possible moment.
We wondered, too, where all those planes
and ships had vanished, their signals lost forever,
while attempting to cross the Bermuda Triangle.
Wondered how many miles into the ocean
the lost city of Atlantis -- which we knew to be
true -- could be, and if one of us ever traveled there
in this lifetime without the other, how we might
send word back to the bright world above.
It's the way I speak to you now, brother,
through the weight and distance of all these years,
your reply moving slowly through the waves
while I wonder at the beauty of that city,
sparks of ancient light flashing against its glass,
a story, like you, I am not willing to let go.
