Never put down "puppy love".
The Flying Moment
One season, back in ’65,
when cups and saucers came alive,
when time stood down — and up — to death,
when dark dimensions, length and breadth,
soared off with senses, bees and birds
in a futility of words,
a purple, orange, silver kiss
anointed ignorance with bliss.
But now the world’s a shadow box
of butterflies. And there are clocks:
the sun comes up, the moon goes down.
Love’s just another common noun.
Yet — somewhere — constellations swirl
above a fifteen-year-old girl.
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