In the flickering leaves and the
tiny wine glasses, stories spark up
all over again, and lying on lawns
faint-colored as absinthe,
we fall apart
so happily gone

Thoughts beat at the coat-tails
and golden-haired lost
things, cerulean nightmares are
shrouded in fire
and you say it’s a drawing,
but it’s really the future.
Two hours from now we’ll be
watching for land.