Playing possum

Playing possum

How long before the clouds stop rolling?

  How long before the seas boil dry?

Before the dust of our ashes blow away,

  and there is no one left here to say,

why does love, when eye meets eye,

  look to where the fool thoughts die;

like reflections in the wide blue sky

  of cobble stones; white; dry.

Dry, like the oblong

  where the car was parked,

slowly filling up with cherry blossom.

 How long before our card is marked,

   How long before no more playing possum?

It won’t be long now.

  It won’t be long!