"remember when we used to play?"

"Remember When We Used to Play?"

If your heart were accustomed to a soft cushion of quotidian calm,

with such fragments I might have shored my ruin, but I didn't know

the second floor and the window faced north, above a courtyard. The

persevering in their own existence or allowing local nature to continue

from her body, from the earth, from radiant angels poised in the air she breathed

is not your native tongue. It isn't anybody's native tongue. You didn't even hear

blood splashed on them. It all started with families. Like this, you and me, naked

but weakened by embarrassingly weak sexual overtones; he is not in control of

the newspaper from the box and the end of their long driveway that curved downhill

forever smiling pityingly, forever talking down to everybody else, bearing the galactic

autodidactic strategies to move outside the surfeit and bounty and excess and (I think) the terror

cavern where the singers had made beds for them to sleep. “What do the trees remember?”