We could lay on our backs in the grass and write poetry
for the stars
A specific stanza for every one of them
And we’d waste our years just breathing out new words
Breathing out the innocence of speech without intent
The breath that comes as naturally to us as it does to the
grass
Breathing out the idiocy of less-then-a-moment’s thought
The breath that comes and goes without even realizing its
passing
Breathing out the profundity of our souls
The miraculous breath that sustains everything
Breathing out the stupidity of young love
A stanza for every one of them.
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