These are broad days
now, and full. Though
we remember skinny
uncertainties,
we can choose abatement
of age in this choking
sun spilling over the sill.
Said another way:
We can close our eyes
For singular perfect recollections
of standing in a Zeeland cornfield
at seventeen,
run a tongue along lips
that still feel like our lips
even after all this breathing,
or pour out music, hard and backward,
from our ears into that eternal air.
You are nothing time, and nowhere,
Under the full force of our
Creaking human brains.
