what I wouldn't give

oh, what wouldn't I give
to be back on that dark lawn
laid out on damp blankets
under the cold, dry stars,
wide-eyed until our corneas smart
from the stillness of night air.

what wouldn't I give
for those days, when the
greatest joy was knowledge, and
the greatest fear was darkness (say,
how little has changed!)
and everything was smaller.

listen to the since-years,
and while you listen, I'll tell you,
quite simply, exactly what I wouldn't give:

the joy of seeing you grow up,
the music of the latest night,
and the indescribable feeling of
being in love with this memory, and realizing
just how desperate(ly hopeful) we truly are.

every word

Say, for example
you were talking to someone,
you were looking at him,
you could hear him,
you could see him, and
when you thought about what he was saying,
as it would look written
on an imaginary page,

it (just for a moment) was as if
every letter was a sentence,
every syllable was a chapter of
every clause, which was a book in which
every phrase could be a library, and
every sentence could be the entire world.

Then, my love, hearing your
voice for less than a moment
could open the most beautiful flowergalaxy, and
it would be the whole universe
on your lips
without saying a single word.