I’ve written of lovers
in the past. Lovers

who were just passing through.
Those who passed on

their wisdom and symptoms.
Some passed on seconds.

Others were merely looking
for a mountain pass to traverse—

any kind of defile would do.
And then there were the ones

who hoped to pass the ultimate test.
The ones making passes

at anyone in sunglasses.
Yet others hoping to pass

as dead ringers for the heroes
I left behind the hotel

on the bluff overlooking the sound.
And lovers who have simply passed.