In the Far, Far Future

If my memories appeared

outside my head, they would look

like a string of cut-out

construction paper people,

never-ending, accordion-style,

array of colors, classic ones

from the bulk package: reds,

greens, blues, but also

the white sheets that are really

just computer paper. Some

of the cut-out people would have

long, long legs, spiraling all around

like an orchid’s aerial roots.

We could plant the little people

next fall and raise them in the spring

as our giant family, however,

the adamant Aussie man giving

his speech about successful couples

said the best thing to do to save

your future marriage is to first

get older. This requires sunsets.

I’d like to order one over every

body of water. I’d like to add

whales as well, the ones

that hold their breath for 2 hours,

so that when they burst through

the water, we capture them

at the exact moment the air

fulfills them, and their entire bodies

smile. Also add a tiny iceberg

to the left. I will write time inside

a construction paper card

and gift it to you at Christmas,

but this requires another year,

and by then I will want to throw time

into the fireplace, which we

don’t have, the crackling yule log

comes from YouTube, so I’ll chuck time

into the television screen, watch

it bounce of the glass, I’ll smash it

into my winter boots, take your hand

and go for a walk through the snow:

I think it’s starting to flurry.