The yellow rope became an icy
cantaloupe beverage and was quaffed
by a thirsty zephyr. The moon
stood in the sky, looking sternly
on tides
it had not authorized.
You and me, and I
do not mean you and I.
It was you and me. We
stood overruling under whelming
stars, in a stillness and silence
unbroken by piercing cicadas
and night birdsong, and our own
inward screams of turmoil, over being
simply being,
the sheer anxious clash
and disorientation of being
in this poem, fortunately
over by the time our screams
faded.
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