a poem like crazy until it was just the colour of grass. the playing of instant, while words resumed some set, bridging, token inference. we stayed late into the day, provoking ideas and tides. we felt useful in certain crumbs and the nature of dark snow on the bending aloofness of whichever nearest looming tree caught our eye. sullen and distinct while a few snatches of song alight in deference to a moment or two. departure includes many details, but love seems to round out the pleasure of just speaking together. we have our time, after all, tho time has us. a poem beyond a word suffices, until we can all hold hands again.