of poppies and grandfathers
rainbows that straighten out
not in color but perfume,
a day of tall grass
whose tips curl like music notes
and my fingers play
their splendid stems
and I would be old
so much older
that I would be younger than I am now
so lost and in such wonderful decay
that garments me in anonymity divine
and you would come
and in a moment of unrecognized ignorance
that off-guards and lulls
embrace.
And then I would die.
Forever, this time.
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