There is a toil on the stars
that I could feel at bedtime
some time, some childhood ago
— couldn’t you?

and the dotted eighth of rain drops
all along the dock—?

and the never-darkness creaking
as the pot of coffee craning
with its rigid neck—?

and the meaty growls of
frogs, blanketed in grass—?

and the nervous usher like a vow
of sun in place ’til death—?

and tens of things, and wiles of
things, and many minds I’ve lost like

and all the while you staring back
at me—?

You see: I could feel it all, even here we
are, at now’s tomorrow.

and you knew us then, too,
we bright and brilliant two—

—didn’t you?