I want to have six with you, the first–
a mellow lot, a bit playful
like a debate about Aristotle
after getting drunk in the moonlight
while your underwear floats
then sinks somewhere
in the Greenbriar River;
then the second–
well that’ll be stellar
like the clarity of flaming hydrogen
from the hilltop grass
surrounded by bovine tranquility
and parsecs away
from light pollution
or the strangeness
of our separate lonelinesses;
next the third–
nothing so special ever
like a moment
in a park,
crepuscular attitudes,
lips tasting of star fruit
and optimism;
after which comes the fourth–
somewhat more surreal, methinks
like the loft-attic in an ancient local house
sitting legs-crossed on the floor
gossiping perhaps
sewing a costume for a skit
while planning world *******;
next to last is the fifth–
side-by-side staring outward
holding hands, a breeze cools
and familiarity lubricates
all friction of years;
and the sixth–
that’s my secret agony
made from wax and wick,
where a tiny spark divides memories
from imagination.