notes, when we walk easily and lowly on an avenue, with a camera, with two hearts we see and we have seen it we breaststroke through a night so dark and slovenly as to turn a sunrise purple to red, ashamed
books, when we love properly when we speak slowly to better hear the dripping of a warm and raining noon there was nowhere left to go for us coolly dryly, bookish we sat and to a boyish morning, hurtled
will we sit again, as we walk will we again open those books and laugh