Future Tense

When we helix in the dark
I pray for a time and place

our bodies haven't lived yet—
spackled with moonlight or 

slick with humid rain, 
threading through alleys

glowing from the undulation
of single light bulbs

in every home's kitchen. 
Or: sidecar and tricycle,

pedalling over bluegreen
cobblestones, promising 

the sea around every next
corner. In fields loud

with green growth, animals
step into view. They  

won't wait until we aren't 
looking. They won't hide 

their meaning. In that
world they'll eat

what they want 
from every garden. 

They'll let us lie
down in thickets

of bamboo— when wind
passes through their hollow

throats, they might remind
us of the sadness in that

dying other world; or they 
might stir more quietly, 

the way things do 
before vanishing.
 

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