If it still stands,
find the bench on the bend
of Crystal Springs trail with a view
of the cold lake
and cormorants. We were idiots,
but we liked this. Also cats on our belly
at night. Taqueria
windows white with steam.
A certain shade of lilac that painted
the hills
for a single week in May.
We had a saying about the meek,
but the crops
failed all of us equally,
the Earth so democratic for a moment.
We kept writing—
bless you if you’re reading this—
because to stop would have been death
before death
before death. To know
the mistakes we made, with everything,
made a long
and foolish memoir.
And what was there to do but write it?
We are
so young. Tonight
white blossoms blaze outside the door,
a scent
like spring has lost
its mind and pumped out all
the pheromones
in the arsenal. We are
so in love as well—this place—
three deer walk
down the center of the street,
lit for a moment, then crossing to the dark.