They were days perfect
for growing strawberries.
Loving was tart, plump,
sweet and casual,
and we were beautiful flesh,
firm and ripe.
Mornings, we passed
through hayfields
as if everything
was young timothy,
wise, tender, not yet cut.
By noon our bodies
floated before us,
and at dusk we lay down,
iridescent in our young skins.
Under a moon
always waxing
we dreamed dreams
that seemed to make sense,
clear as cold spring water
and as easy to forget.
What was it we felt
so passionate about?
Even the page says,
Don’t spill that ink
on this unspoiled white.
Your scribbles are
so broken, your words
so bald, so patent,
they reveal your
mediocrity. People
will look through
your clothes and see
something half-formed,
a green fruit
fallen early
from a sick tree.

Instead slide
through the open transom
into a sliver
of sky where curds
scud by, basted by
crows. Dwell
with the loose
longings that are
your unborn poems
and comfort yourself
that not being
neither can they suffer,
not being born
neither can they die.