G. Z. Kieft

drunk off minutes
punctured limits
venture past the sun’s permission
these are the times we burn restrictions
beaches and pines are the cure to affliction:
our stipend conditions
working as “living”
just sits in the distance
ticking to riddance
this is the rhythm
we find ourselves in
as sure as the glisten
of light on our skin
replaced now by moon shine
so silent and dim
so quiet it finds me
the time to condemn:

here’s to the roses
I owe her
here’s to the roaming of oceans
to show her
here’s to the roads that we don’t know
I’ll chauffeur
and hope that the time in those moments
will carry on over.