If we all a had swing we remembered
Or a corner of a street that missed us most
I wonder what friends we would still have there
They say these days go on
They, the lovers of our memories
The walkers convincing us
That they are as alive as they used to be to our now
Ghosts in our souls that we build basements for
A haunting cannot take more time to raise the nape’s hair
Than the presence of what it fears we won’t breathe in
I wonder if we follow the road ahead
If we look up at the leaves
Of watching the crushed path ‘neath our knees
If we wouldn't walk a bit larger than
Even they remembered
Or for that matter. . . where the swing is now. . . today