I dream of circular driveways
and circles of gold
with fingers to wrap around them.
Pink fleshy little things.
I dream of a fall without the cruelties
of winter
and subtle little hints of children.
I dream of a small lover,
with feet I can't stop kissing,
of time and hands like tissue paper,
rocking back and forth
gazing at the sky.
I know that life will always circle
overhead
like vultures,
and all we are ever born to do
is die.