We have slipped into suburbs, into work,
forgot how the light plays through leaves
onto ripples in Black River, that spot
by the old ford, near the piles of quarried stone.
We forgot about your saxophone,
forgot the possibility of revolution,
slipped into parenthood, into life,
into old tree filled neighborhoods,
gone quietly, but for the roaring
of our lawnmowers, having forgotten
about the moon, the world after dark,
raccoons creeping out of shadows.
We forgot about the safety that night affords
and the danger that swings like a fist in a barroom.
We have slipped into worry, into democracy,
forgot the quality of our rage,
forgot tenderness, forgot poetry,
slipped into the soft quiet of early morning,
the sun at dawn, and forgot one another,
forgot the possibility of transcendence.
