I will sit under the apple tree. I will watch the clouds.
It will be late May and the blossoms on the apple tree
will have been kissed by bees and sundry insects. I will
remember our making love and the importance of
full moons in June. I will reach for a drink and find
the hollow elbows of shadows. I will try to remember
events discarded along the road time uses. I will wallow
in roadside café’s and bars. I will dream technicolor
dreams of automobiles dressed in the fins of ‘57. I will
construct and deconstruct philosophies for five o’clock
in August. I will sing the songs ants and grasshoppers
memorise in childhood. Clouds will be stratospheric
waves. The moon will be a pebble on a beach of stars.
I will be the child who never grows up. I will play
the song of words forever. I will twist events into a
Gordian knot and call it Saturday. I will drink to that.

I will ignore the creaking doors in my mind. So fragile,
that space between a summer breeze and snow. So
soft the absence from the hard spaces of contact with
gravel roads twisted into pain between farms and
farmland. Villages and villagers. The debarkation
point for dreams and an alley where sleep escapes
the sleeper. So hard to take up arms against entropy.
So difficult to change the way light falls on a kitchen
table. So enervating to pick stones from a secluded
beach and call them castle. Give them the importance
of safety. So impossible to bend the straight line of
memory until it remembers not lies, not reality, but
rather potential, that point before, yet still going
forwards, that point where no matter how hard we
want it, there is no choice. The sidewalk has ended
and the road is the next step.