I was told about big squares
About yellow, wet, rotten leaves
Deserted windy nights
I kept being told about fires in our palms
About warm sheet
And phones switched off
About all the ephemeral happiness
Among two put out cigarettes
Like broken telegram sticks
Each in its own galaxy
With a better past being the common cover point.
There, where time was still plenty
Perhaps there the ice in our drinks
Would never melt
Perhaps the world there would always be night
Due to the bright, the peaceful
The reserved for the One time
That has no beginning or ending
It was years later
For any possible heat
For any possible endless touch.
“It would have been nice,” I replied
And that was all I had to say about that.