We said, we'd like to bathe in the
swim with dolphins, see the coral. So we
apricot cordalyne lining a path
for the future,
a bottle of
bubbly, bitter and sweet, under
the highest, hugest moon.
Were there clues beneath our feet? Gathering in our
toes? Were there rumors in the wind? Were the waves speaking,
keeping time with our throbbing? Next day, I wore a plume of posy,
was luck in this floral trimming. That what
we had was rare.
What one incident, word, glance, plucked the hope embedded
easy terms? Or does joy
die slowly, June always conceding to an eventual, stipulation of snow?
in the cross stitch
hanging your grandmother
gave us held up when we
did not. Just a ball dropped;
of many. So the knowledge sits tucked
beneath my belt, a threat of the dry throat confession I can't choke
out and the assembled
court of small town cynics pronounce my guilt of loss.