You said when
when arrives
and you’ve had
your fill of museums,
you’d show me
the heavens.
All clouds
and calendars
would then
be shattered,
and dusk shredded
by lace vines.
Well, what if
we must grow old?
The moon
wrapped in
its agelessness
putters behind
the house,
tugging upward
the backwash
of our pasts.
Will disappears.
I disappears.
We’ll do our best
to love the
ragged stars.

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