it is high noon and the bright fruits shine
in the air is a promise of decay
we let the sun pour its old light on us
and bury imagination in warm smiles
we save up for higher seasons, for longer shadows
for deeper promises and gentler declines
slow and infinite are our thoughts, we hasten not
we are like the dream of an old animal who goes to die
that way our freedom is no longer tasteless and we
can press our cold mouths against each other to live
from the words that remain like berries on a charred plant
from the cold shades wherein we wield each other’s power
are you there, my children, ready to celebrate the story as a story
and to fall in love a hundred times
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