Another older poem…
We used to run through the orange grove
eyes shut tight, arms churning,
trying to think like bats.
Pretend to leap from tree to tree,
breathless crouching jaguars.
Stretch our backs on the warm earth,
taste the orange air,
blot out the stars with our hands,
become the last survivors at the edge of the universe.
Tonight the sky is cold, hard as diamond.
I press my back to the ground
feel its familiar warmth.
The grove still seasons the air.
Eyes open, hands behind head,
looking up through true darkness,
having survived too long at the edge of all things,
I no longer desire to blot out the stars.