Yet
there will be wine yet to drink,
there will be love yet to make,
and feet dipped into virgin ponds
to wash away callousing years,
seashells with openings like vulvas
into which we can lay our ears for
an ocean of music,
and white sand to doodle on with slow footsteps,
and beheaded coconuts giving
quenching clear blood to compete
with the red of wine,
there will be mornings yet to rouse
with long-carousing nights,
and nights to put to sleep with
bedtime stories of whispers or moans,
our tanned skin
the only blanket we need
there will be happy blindings by the sun,
there will be all the tomorrows
to forget
yet
Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2018
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