Suspicion pulses from those gathered here for trial
My companion believes I’m fair, she thinks I will be good
She has been wrong before—she will be so, again
These others know all that for truth
I say make your judgment, if you will
I freely offer all my sins and pleasures
I do not know what you will do, yet I think that I can bear it
But if the verdict should somehow be that I am not so cruel as charged,
Let the record show you did your best and I did mine
What I have to say will have to do
This place is rich
and full of evening dark, and vast
and makes a cozy home
for transient souls,
which is to say
it is a nameless place
for nameless things
from where I wrote to you
before I became the bit that prowled your skin
and kissed so light and tender
you felt no sudden thrill or lasting heat;
just the little boost that comes with the sweet ripening of fruit.
What the children endure
what cannot be survived.
And we know from knowing them
that were they not tough as turtles,
nor fleet as flying things,
nor comfortable as Friday fish,
nor relentless as wind,
nor guileless as tomorrow’s dreams
we could not have gone to there and back,
nor made so much of time.
The earth around us warms.
Our trembling cells
echo in waves
and wrinkle the land.
Soon we will slip our way
to the hot and wet and sweet place of reimagining
and emerge again to repopulate the evening dark.