what we are to do with the present day

It’s about 8:30. The afternoon
of the blitz our realtors were hurting. The house
it seemed, a far cry now from our comeliness, but then
the sort of debris got fallen. It was beautiful.
I wore tender rooms of flowers about my hair and simply
ate it on the balcony hours over hours tickling the cracks
in a pomegranate. I feel softly a rain
fizzle the netting and it is in those days
I played port and sea. Pains, as it were, were no longer
that of poppies and glockenspiels. It was getting late,
a century in here, the tower to exercise
our deep fears, hoping the stolen portents would indeed
return from that lofty hotel where all
things seemingly steal away
in the dark. It’s dark now. Your snores tender
the fissures already raw on your throat. I go long
across the room to revive them, stiffening you
to a kind of trade. I had the heart of a powerful
router, not loving you then, and certainly I know
not how now. Our house is the brown
of mice droppings, the house smells the way
we would, had the blessing taken several years
these blessings feeling our hands. Darling,
the animals have managed; they have class.
The wheat tips high into the light and bitingly we seize the
necks of confused goats going home. I want
to reprimand Milton just once, for the soreness
reportedly meant for his woman. She must
have been a doozy, as wild fish
in distant memory simpering to smile
on you. She has the legs and the face,
if not the body misdirected. I think
of floating backward, the way washes happen
to today, full of pulp and presently
there is no suffering of water. We drove
north and pouring was on us.