A Cargo of Green Hearts
see, its about returning to the source. nights so warm
the fireflies stick to the air. watermelon, as a metaphor for
any of it. I remember walking up an estuary in the moonlight
fish bouncing off my chest like bullets. on such a night
one could lie down upon this earth with just a sliver of
sadness, not the whole pie. I would not give up the green
grass for anything; it would be better to die than not have it.
who among us has not felt the same about a lover? I never
learned the names of the birds but there is still time.
summer is made of time. the kisses stay in your mouth
even after you're done kissing them. when the beach rose
takes over the night air none of us will behave responsibly.
so be it, if the molecules of my being last until then.
I will be finished with all this house cleaning, this waiting
for the postman. the house will have burned down.
the postman gone fishing. I remind myself that what I think
matters doesn't. I won't speculate on the shape of the
mouth I will raise my hand to touch. I will close my
eyes. when I open them, everything will be in place.
even the thought of summer is a kind of faith.
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