A moth beats in time with a ship’s wake in the distance
while a staring contest takes place between a squirrel &
a girl vicinal, as the rodent nibbles on his breakfast nuts;
I’m lighting down a cigarette—first I’ve had in months.
”What little amount of love you get by on, ”
she espies, and I have to agree.
Yet it was worth the wait to peruse the line
as the others looked down at their fate.
Come again in the early fall when dust turns gold,
thick with remorse—beckoning to those barely listening,
no doubt—turnabout is indefinite and serenely accepted
by she, who desires these pulsating vibes of historical
precedence.
This quivering aspiration for physical patina,
what is it we seek once we've found it
as loves dry out like city fountains in fall—
cradling life, a child caught in the was am be.
s./j. goldner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/he-said-he-went-sailing/
