why can’t i be an Alain Delon
whetting a birch branch in France
waiting for it to dawn with my baby rusting my diamonds belt in the sea
while having one foot in the ether of a camera screen
we can dance by the orchard of peach trees and walk to our own sea
a pathway of crooked chucks of willow and ash with carved space in between, growing leaves of grass
refracting sunlight beams of my diamond and rust belt
one day, my god, we’ll have to stop pretending to live the lives we want to try living
and start living the lives we would pretend to be living
onе day, you and i can stop living between the hither and thе farther shore,
and can start longing for the shore farther than the shore we thought we could only long for