ONLY CENTURIES AWAY:

shall we not continue then/ is it not up to us/ to stake out a course/ and define the territory/

shall we not navigate and find our way then/ on and through and by way of each other/ by what we know/ and accept/ from that which we blindly trust/ to that which we fully love/

by way of non-descript star systems on white breasts/ watery beads on a spring day/ dripping into oblivion/ or condensating into hot air/ into hot universes/ observed for milliseconds only/ by an astronomer's gaze as he peers out of the bushes/ time enough for a few constellations to be bashfully known/ but not enough for any to be named/

to mark a trajectory on a sleeping belly/ strewn with foxes hair/ masquerading the advance of miraculously light fingers/ tangentially tippity-toeing along the untended barricades/ into the midst of the den/

and on a freckled summer's day/ draw a line from above-closed-eyes forehead/ to the soft valley of a venetian landscape/ where trying fingers thread the waters like inexperienced gondoliers/

shall we not continue to pursue each other then/ under light paper blankets of summer/ under crisp duvets of autumn time/ under furry skins of mammoth and bison in winter/ and rustle with anticipation in a squirrel's nut shell in spring/

shall we not ignite with promises/ on the longest day of the year/ by seas or lakes/ wiping crawfish juice and tears of joy from chins with soggy napkins/ watching seals, seagulls and ducks/ and wide varieties of made-up creatures/ contemplate somersaults/ in the sparkling, watery distance/

shall our unbridled self-involvement not lead us then/ to forget about SCUD rockets and covert operations/ drone attacks/ and UN forces forever standing idly by/

shall we not be so wonderfully selfish then/ as to carve a diamond cave in an unchartered territory/ to settle down there/ and incubate and cultivate tiny wonders privately/

shall we not sit by the hot stone in winter/ and count the numbers of wonders and apparitions since having first met/

shall we not count the hours of peace before nightfall/

shall we not draw a line from the end of one tiny nose/ to the end of another tiny nose/ making it impossible not to fixate/ to have gazes locked on above-nasal area/ the concentrated superhighway of lust and desire/

should our world not stay congested then/ so that it would always have to be blasted wide open/ always had to be sprung out/ like an italian mobster in a much too tiny cell/ if for nothing else/ so that there may be an open space/ where the laundry can be hung out to dry/