In the future that's ours, we'll walk
down streets shining with faces like ours.
The only things loaded into trucks are sacks
of carrots thick as your wrist, strawberries
that grow to the size they should be without
fear of chemical rot. Passing the open
windows of our neighbors, we'll smell
the blessed trinity of garlic, onions,
and tomatoes fed to the oil in their pans.
In the future that's ours, every day
we'll learn with growing clarity the way
the smallest bones in our bodies are knit
to every possible articulation of thought, how
they want to bend to the honeyed moods of light.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
