Darker

The moon poured more

light into the sky

yet we kept on talking

 

We were young enough

to believe that

each experience somehow

 

improved us, that all the

copperheads in the garden

were there for a purpose

 

not yet old enough

to feature how the

dead grow more dead

 

each night, that under

the elms and leaves,

as the poet said

 

the graves grow deeper.

We cannot remember fast enough

to save ourselves.