Tulip Hunting In Central Park

Late in the dead afternoon I crawled
Up the boulder bunched against a foothill.
I don’t remember why, not now.
I remember the achy feeling though,
And the shallow, predictable demise of it all,
After those compass-free days,

What buried treasure touched the fire,
What silky agent pierced the boundary line?
The narrow roadway, white and chalked,
Hemming the highland summer meadow,
Could I forget those stars, however misaligned?

Would I delete that edgeless, radiant, holographic night;
Could I forget you, and would I live a single day?