I was in bed when
awoken by drunken whispers
as faint as wet chalk,
two fresh lovers can
talk for hours,
until the bird sings
and there is dawn.
In one of these conversations
it feels as if you could talk
until peace
until death
until the end
of starvation
of poverty
of war

inevitably, though
you can’t
as we’re only fresh lovers
murmuring at dawn.