Of course, we haven’t been promised a thing,
not forever or next year or even tomorrow.
This moment, this half of a half of a second,
is the only thing we can ever truly call
It’s not that I don’t want
the sun’s full capacity, or the waterfall at it’s boldest roar,
or a forest of birdsong and deer prints,
or the ripest apple from the season’s first harvest.
One could always imagine a lighter, fresher version of here,
dream a little wider, fashion more art from the long,
But this is what happens when I allow time
to slither by instead of muscling it forward:
The peanuts on the flight to Miami, lunch.
The serpentine line at the bank, rest. A crowded bar,
heat and kinship. Your kiss,
one lucky eternity.