Bumming it

A fellowship of two, we walk

for days on strips of sand,

from point to point the long way;

 

Set up tents in gaps

where gnarled forts – built by day –

let in the sky.

 

You pick driftwood sticks while

I tear sheets from journals

either emptied of past Sin

 

Or full of futures still possible.

The stray that chose to join us

stands sentinel beyond our glowing ring,

 

Thundering at each rustling mortal thing

like his Olympic namesake. Before life

fractured the frame of our best-laid plans;

 

Before girls and jobs and debt

took all our time. When we were warrior

poets in our moment of the possible.

 

After the dream but

before the sober light of day.

We watched Night trip and fall,

 

Scatter stars to the foggy gloam,

as we stared into the shifting sandy embers

of crumbling logs, warmed by our quest

for the ineffable flame.

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