The Future

This is the ninth year of regret.
Luminous decay. Still thinking small —
Cinnamon. Feet. Horses. Pink lobes.
Graves of silence on bones sing, not
All children needed to turn to
Stones. Your ears purpling of curled shame.
Not all shores needed to wrestle
With the lack of rain, and membranes.
On another star, two ancient
Lovers study pain’s first suspicion —
Light, as a measure of distance
Not time, and among such other
Discoveries, the sparkle of herrings:
Aglow but only after they are dead.

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