Not Quite

Bug on a pin, you might say, this,
Not the thing we saw alive four
Hours back, beneath the trees,
On blanket, speaking sweetly,
Eating, paired at last, and
Pleased to be. You are who
I believed I wanted. There, you
Grew to be the world. When you
Fell asleep on me, I thought,
I'll never know such joy,” and
Yet I also thought, insanely, that,
If I had paper with me, I could
Write and save said joy. It
Didn't work. You shrank a bit,
As I began to search for words,
And, now, in evening, I have this:
It's what we had, though twice
Removed, no longer what we saw
Alive, a bug upon a pin.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 64 times
Written on 2014-06-01 at 15:48

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