youth that vanishes.

we are young now,
and almost,
almost eternal.
we are young now
and the weight
the cripple of things
such as
poetry
and love
that anchors
feet
to the earth.
is deeply,
undesirable.
I wish I could run then hollar
I wish I could run then roar
then plea
into our
oblivious
invincible
infant
ears.
we will grow old one day
we will
we will clutter with
bending fragility
that scatters with passing breeze.
the us
we
will be ripped off
of wach other
and placed on
deferent continents
banged against
then banged away
from one another
we will clutter
upon restless
arid nights
when poetry flees
and ceases
and the old
once
tedious
once
river
that burnes and flutters
in glory
once
is now thin
and waterless.
I wish I could run
and roar
in our infant
ears
beware
of loss
that is congruent, and undetectable.