For us, our day is almost done;
gravity will take us right to the ground;
watch the video without sound,
read the poem without end,
(that’s the poem we prefer)
the past is gone but it’s what I know.
Everything here is tomorrow.
When we were happy and together,
obsessed it wouldn’t last forever,
the obsession wasn’t good. We knew
it looked bad in our reflections, too.
We can’t get over that “now” doesn’t exist.
No, it wasn’t good to be obsessed—
but only passionately
can we fool ourselves into poetry.
How can I write poetry dryly, avoiding sorrow?
Everything here is tomorrow.