Sensibility belongs to highway waterfalls
in ever-growing infrastructures
that come and go on the last big rain.
It belongs to roadside cinnamon trees
beneath a wild and waning sun.
The world, she says, is beautiful while it lasts.
Courage drips down with morning coffee.
It floats there uninvited, like petals in a pool
only to be caught and filtered ‘till the next big rain.
She taps her glass as if to say
the world is beautiful while it lasts
beneath our wild and waning sun.
Count familiar artifacts from the summer of walking.
Cherry cigars, tasteless beer, men calling out for a drink.
We found our courage, incomplete, like single shoes along the road
in the summer of walking between school and home.
Here then gone like bad beer and good men.
Who washed away with the last big rain.
She said, even then, that sadness came
on cannonball ripples.
We’re homesick for days long past
when no such thing existed
As transplant trees and roadside rapids,
burning now beneath our wild and waning sun.
We’re just another casualty of the forced affair
between timelessness and time.
There will be no summer like the last.
Let’s drink, she says –
To the edge of the universe.
There will be no champagne like the last.