What we could have done together instead of like
gravestones agreeing across fathomless turquoise plots
and with the same chipped words judge the weight of his
mother's voice when he held it every week in a letter;
where we could have laid on our backs shuffled in our
aspirations amongst the shadows of clouds on other clouds,
hung-up on those sillying shapes and the first time you tried
darling, don't you still try to make them tremendous?
Maybe the caption which included hints for learning to care
about a different person every second was the real thing,
and I should just make up my mind once and for all
to do away with that puff about life being much more than
a series of things to get out of the way. She'd moved on
since we last spoke so he couldn't any longer reach her.
And it's tough when at odd times you realise how forgiveness
for such lapses can be aimed at any point; how I've gargled
on it myself when it's stuck in my throat for as long as it takes
to relieve me of a salutary breath, two shakes and slug backed,
nagged vainly, dull behind the largely useless seconds
of being winded by the moving separateness of hands
strung through bags of practically identical shopping;
so I'm not one can't hear himself say there's somebody
with as much humanness as I can muster no less inclined
to guard its contents when we get home. I really did
see a golden shaft more shadow than sun at final step.
We could have made up our minds to watch the panes
on that side of the house quiver as a comedy when
through a couple of semis it shot the set together.