Sunday night, as Sundays go,

I lay back on the treehouse deck,

A jar of moonshine next to me,

The canopy of stars my movie screen;

I dreamt, as I am wont to do,

Of lovers past,

Of future paths,

Which of the divergent ones in the woods below me,

‘Neath the boughs I’ll trod —

The easiest ones are not wellworn,

Or worn well in the light of day,

For love bears fruit in thorny patches —

When while I tracked a planet’s arc,

I turned to get a better view,

Avoided jarring fermented peaches’ vessel,

And sent my memory,

Encased in plastic, metal and glass

In smartphone form,

On its own treacherous path through treehouse cracks,

Bouncing from limb to limb,

Resting against a rock,

Removing wireless writing that,

In days of olde,

Would’ve bounced from carriage to carriage in scented envelopes,

Leaving imaginary lovers on the doorsteps of social media,



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