say, if the lore seeping through my veins slowly became yours,
as I lie here in these arms, safe as a rope walker, being offered images
of the day dreamer, the visions momentary realities, minute
measured by minutes ticking by, say if life became stationary and unreal,
even worse if you considered ten or a hundred years yonder,
is it too late or early for your place and my mission to mingle
while as you watched you might have catched onto, and started turning
like our hair, our feet, our thoughts, if only they were single
into lust from trust, this world may become one to waste in, burning.