The glasses of an old man,
sunning himself
on the street corner.
A blooming pain,
bursting in the spring breeze.
Our mouths holding
the fragrance of night.
And in the distance,
the boat shudders, creaking.
But I have not wavered,
knowing that I have lived..
My footsteps retracing
the wood’s thick body.
And the fury of love, no less.