boy, oh boy,
seems as if we’re
stuck in this here old map,
in the
orangely-denoted topography,
wherein lies the
undulating river valley
of our biography.
where the blues,
their hues,
intensify and I lament
how your irish
sea and my tyrrhenian,
how your green
old grass and my titanium
will never meet,
never meet, never meet.
and if I were to
speak
of the pelican’s
drenched and broken beak plummeting
fast toward the
horizon,
and the water ‘neath
it
unwittingly
compromising,
would my love
say,
“hush my sweet. it’s
only fast asleep.
he closed his
eyes but for a moment;
he’s fast asleep,
fast asleep, fast asleep.”
turn the page – a
continent!
growing barren,
gone malignant,
wherefore you
stand the oasis,
you lead me through
the darkened spaces,
we make our way
back to the green
with no traces
of a stone or a scratch.