a good story

it was a summer of Tuesdays
when we knew our bones and
sailed through thunder,
left spring in the car
that day,
and that day
as we climbed down the gorge
sure as feet and twice as high
I knew that day
that I loved you for always
and as the browngreen river sparkled
summer sun
our days were written
in grass and swans;
when you wore my smile,
our skin came in,
and there were deer in the
midnight street;
smoke curled at the curb,
grey grotto called
home,
where we knew our bones
and the story was
told.


(summer 2000)

A.