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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=568047" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Our Eager Young Possibilities</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=568047" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Kelly wrote a poem to her mother I did not <br>Read; <br>But at night I guess I ejaculate the same way, <br>But to the girl and her friends, <br>The little fat roses I am too afraid to give away<br>In the immense daylight of our<br>Cages; <br>The way grizzly bears may stop and sniff before<br>A cerulean tent way deep in the permafrost<br>Of its alluvial planes, before<br>It gets down to its businesses of dismembering; <br>And I don’t love Kelly, <br>Not in the way I used to, the way a young child<br>Expects and loves his crackerjack prizes, <br>Even though they are not enough; <br>But I suppose I could- She is a beautiful woman<br>Who can spot dolphins and manatees just as <br>They go about licking the world, <br>Metamorphosing practically out on the surface world, <br>Like adolescents unsure of their graduation; <br>Her husband masculinely hung and can work on tractors; <br>But when she starts out with her eyes when <br>We are alone into the midday crepuscule of our busted<br>Lip playground, <br>I like the fact that I don’t know anyone else around, <br>And what we are doing lasts just as briefly above the earth, <br>Almost gloriously, a welding torch, <br>A fix for those angels, before we separate and merge into<br>Traffic, <br>Forgetting the effects of that harvest’s kind gravity, <br>Whose impermanence reminded us of our eager young<br>Possibilities.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>