There’s a tree branch pressed against your window:
leaves flexed up, muscular and persistent.
Roots sunk deep into the marshy clay
sucking fecundity upwards, persisting, breathe.
You’ve still juice; nature’s sorcery agrees.
When I see you, cologne boils to steam
and we vibrate in harmony with bliss. Swollen
with major chords, a cacophonous deliciousness.
Enough to make a lugubrious old man giggle.
Swing-dancing into our allotted roles,
eerily synchronous as if we’d already rehearsed
the steps in another life, or in dreams.
Let’s treat this like a memory we can walk
around in. The palace doors creak open onto
gilded wings; in every room an instrument.
We can stay forever. We are immortal here.
