We drank the nectar left there for you.

We grew drunk on doom.

There was never enough.

Down by the river of our youth,

we pulled love with our tongues.

We took something from you.

Green-groping in reeds and stink,

river slow in its drive-by saw us,

said nothing. We could say

we were young—young was once true.

We took all that was sweet and all that would be.

We left no excuse.

We ignored the body-made call, the sweet text,

its subtle, alien speech:

We beseeched! We beseeched!

Did you not get our message?

It tasted of many grasses drunk:

clover bud, sepal, petals—

then panic, then wrath, then the end.

All that we read,

we misread:

Come hither, help us! Come-come!

Did you not get enough?

Taste in the grass, be drunk—

Taste many times over, taste more,

taste in hurry, in passion,

taste to the end of all tongues and be done.