hear the sound of every rusted, blunted mace

as they greet and meet  through gravity’s lack of grace,

each at thirty two point two,

the fateful rate of this heaving season

where fruits misplace a summer’s trust to kiss the dirt

and, where they fall, corrode and stall the wheels of love

for those we find untouchable

while yet our hearts may still enmesh, beneath

a curtain of sequestered dreams, I shall ignore

the steam bled whistle of hypnotic dread

and through the concrete sunshine

tread with less attention than before

I’ll love you all