Poem for Love Written on a Perfect Friday on this Doomed Planet

by David Zumwalt

 
and I am still trying to fool myself into believing in the future. Up through the blue and cloudless sky I see the entire roundness of the moon and wish I could live there. I am mostly just a body orbiting my wants, falling in love relentlessly along the way. Sometimes I feel personally attacked by punk rock songs—my calloused, spade-like hands fail, again and again, at gentleness—but today, easy joy rests in the sunlight that warms my obvious ribs, and every tyrant of my occluded heart has been deposed. It would not take much, to live on the moon: a liking for quiet, a memory of sheets and goosebumped skin.


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