Still am I spitting seeds of the wild apples we plucked over fences
last summer. You have long stopped saying
anything good, not even a trace of despair or dismay
swells the veils of our borrowed vessel.
A circus waltz accompanies
soaked hopes, which we keep draining in the moonlight.
We’re swirling or merely swerving, does it really matter?
The fact is we’re not sinking, we may even float on our backs if need be.
I do have my bikini ready and an extra atoll standing by… Please let me know
when land comes into sight, that we may timely light our pyres on the mast.
One year did not suffice me to love you!
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