A talk in the park

“The sky here is different,
“milkier, and grey on the horizon.”
“Because of the moisture?”
“Because of the moisture.”

He
sits in dreams of honeyed suns and cotton clouds,
of nights like furs and days yet found,
of years on wings and years on wings.

I
lay me down in purple shades,
on swaying green, blade on blade

Our shadows
shimmer / shake.

Though the fact of fall be upon us,
warm are we
who know a spring
out of time—we who sing
off off rhyme.

Khôi