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
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—