When I think of us as something nascent
Or young and unfounded, or newly wrought,
Or virginal (now that’s a funny thought.
Virginal. Young, eager, maybe frightened?
Attempting to find some new untouched spot
And feigning poise or erotic complacence)
I wonder if the text falsifies ends,
Or if we are new hands on some law book.
Wonderfully new. Hands can be drawn or shook
Whenever. And people can let a new
Line be drawn wherever, in sand or soot;
Though that sounds stupid: imagine us years
From now drawing lines in the ground in some
Sandy patch in the middle of everything.
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