The sun gives tomorrow a slow shape—
Every silhouette singing for the tender death of the day. 
I might as well indulge in a Romantic ramble,
And lick summer’s sweet nectar off a poet’s palm—
An amber enchantment, Sticky with a rhyming residue
That will linger on old father time’s hands. 

I’ve been trying to pour out more political lines,
I’ve been wondering if that’s part of the profession. 
But today, I take my wristwatch off at the table, 
And lay it face down—
There’s a lot of figurative frivolity to discuss
Before the fireflies freeze. 

Tell me about the pillow-forts and treehouses of your youth,
I’ll throw you a couple thought experiments—
Just to know you, even in the hypothetical.
These little talks are like lullabies, 
Like the last effort of purple that clings to the horizon,
Trying to dawdle with the dog days of June.