a poem...

Fortunate Fall



A faulty memory’s not fit to amuse
us, when we need a means to slip away
into a dream of all the good we may
or may not dare. For we yet hate to lose,
shambling and resentful of the news
that loss is woven into every play
we make. The sun yet burns us, as we weigh
the odds that love’s an everlasting ruse.
It's like a dream, this memory undone.
The hour's not as early as I thought,
yet I bear the remnant of our love
for a garden City lost, then won -
a fugitive law presses from above
that we might be more dearly bought.