I want for the crackle
of backyard fire, the spilling racket
of amber into the wanting
mouths of glass mugs, the
clink of company, the
way friends exhale when
geographies subside, how
time stretches itself out,
hound sighing softly against
the well-worn rug.
One day, I whisper, we
will be old men grown bored
of all our answers, craving
the very questions that
weary us now, pull us
awake in wonder, keep
us hungry for breath, we
should be savoring the
pens wobbling, desperate
for the page, in our
shaking hands.
Remember the year you
made home of the treetops?
Decades of cave dwelling
and your eyes flooded
the moment you drank
the sunset in the air
of some canopy. I was
there, watching in
wonder before either
of us knew how to walk
such a skyscape, remember
the thunder and how it
drowned in our laughter?
Remember?
michael king 