Some Idler Invented The Idea

And some we thought were not the same
as some thought we must be aftermath
to something like we might have made
of ourselves we give our lot and give our game
we play it right away when we wear
the idea of us to find we can’t quite fit
these soiled clothes having grown
into instance when we’re shamed
we wept furiously wrapping our limbs
with what we could find and whittle
into the thing most preciously kept between
our joined sexes we must feel thus so alive
as to die for when we enter eden once more
will you ask me to pick fruit where only
brambles grow like the thorns worn most
easily around the time we parted
heading toward the dawn and the next day
will roads not find us faster from the scarce
calamity we made of not enough air
in our kiss we thought about other lips
we must’ve kvetched out our small smell
with taste we termed it mirth
we are all a pack of saddies in a mist
endlessly picking up new inventions
and since then have been somehow unwell
while we want to heal the sun
and resolve the moon’s adolescence
will it never cease to rain us into
an ocean shorter than we can swim