A moth beats in time with a ship’s wake in the distance <br />while a staring contest takes place between a squirrel & <br />a girl vicinal, as the rodent nibbles on his breakfast nuts; <br />I’m lighting down a cigarette—first I’ve had in months. <br /> <br />”What little amount of love you get by on, ” <br />she espies, and I have to agree. <br />Yet it was worth the wait to peruse the line <br />as the others looked down at their fate. <br /> <br />Come again in the early fall when dust turns gold, <br />thick with remorse—beckoning to those barely listening, <br />no doubt—turnabout is indefinite and serenely accepted <br />by she, who desires these pulsating vibes of historical <br /> <br />precedence. <br /> <br />This quivering aspiration for physical patina, <br />what is it we seek once we've found it <br />as loves dry out like city fountains in fall— <br />cradling life, a child caught in the was am be.<br /><br />s./j. goldner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/he-said-he-went-sailing/
