On the eve of a memory,
when the daylight streams through
old clouds, carried in the bucket
of yesterdays, there comes
a clarity. A bidding of dues
in clues from tiny feet,
now braking for beer and girls
and the particular geistlieb that
only says hello to newcomers.
Severed as one gets from
the possibility of possible, of eventual –
of always – it’s never really
too late to ensure what little time
remains to pour out the slop
from the bucket that once held
our best intentions.
These two, grasped from out of
hands held tighter still
to our deepest dreams.
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