we moved to a small town
in Kentucky that starts with a F.
moments never last, but we were trying,
like photographs.
even with bourbon eyes
and one hundred dreams without numbers,
we see minor-character miracles in soft silly minutes
and talk in our sleep.
let's play the drums on our knees,
trade bumps on our heads
for pancakes
and forever weekends.
yes, we built a time machine
with a red front door,
and we filled it with an inventory
of endless stories.
yes, we swim in waterless time,
better than bridges
before our hearts attack,
and we will keep the world talking about love and physical reach.
this is the juxtaposition of death and transfiguration,
like the setting sun behind new moves,
it is in our borrowed hands and in our owned eyes,
never hidden from our corner: here, here, here, we, go.