nathanael.ink

Things pass. They d-
falling asleep maybe on green yards gazing
at greener yards, no I’m sure they must, they do
and the tub drains straight to the fountain of youth
ever unstuffed-up, it will keep us scrabbling for
pools accumulating, but pouting toward
rusty drain pipes
of time-ago; their call and their lure

still keeps us scrabbling, believing
youth past is not completely passed
just slipped through some wire gate; for to us
minimal wire gates, well, they are fences
white and picket, knee high and we
we will step right over someday- away
someday away from ideal in
in- into real. This is how thing pass they
stay asleep then Present wakes them up to run
and hop, jump, and skip over Ideal’s fences into
which one we..
whichever one we admit to perceive
the other side to be…