This was the moon, which once was green.
We were youngsters ourselves, thin and green.
A door on a hinge, words on the glass of a light,
were promises, but not to tell us what to do,
of the power of the mountain in the hat
and in the valley of the shoe. We would go
overseas, into the next room, or into meditation,
we would unravel the animals without hurting them.
We would ache in the story of the martyr,
we would collect what never existed,
we wanted to take our places in the stones
as well as among the municipal memberships.
We came into retrospect like a flower
which unfolds and unfolds to the weather
with no blame for the briefness of its season
from which it exits in a fit of relaxation.
We learned love lengthens, the universe expands.
Constantly, quantity was a case in point.
What policy? We simply grew up, having none.
We couldn’t pick our route, nor leave home.
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