Tomorrow wills can only fall behind us all.
The hard dusk dines
to devour as
the swallow meets the wind.
Do you glide or dive?
and even so,
when the mask of Auld Lang syne
sit upon our bones and bellies-
when new sails offer their bow,
will you decline?
Or can such a garden host
another eternal wilt,?
Where sight is memory,
for days within days within my hands,
till the end permits no forgiving,
will the grass ever grow?