On a borrowed plaid blanket
and planted grass
betwixt a river
and it's long-dead discoverer
lay two olive lovers
gazing into rough-hewn sculptures
whose sole remaining tests
be those of time, pressure being
pre-determined and defeated
unanimously.
He doesn't notice his hand entwined
in that lazy lock as the aperture opens;
it hereby makes his case
as he now prepares to sleep
unmentionably and alone, wiling away
a countdown just as sacred
as his vow to make
warding off dog tones
a special goal of his.
And it's love.
And was love, even in that big city.
And he thanks God she didn't choose
to learn
until now.
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