When she was a girl, and I was a boy,

the trees had no kind, the doors had no #s,

and the wind did not carry the clatter

of bones, weathered and hollow, and once words.

Animals had our eyes, our short-life eyes,

and we knew the way to go in the sand—

and daylight was squeezed from lemons & limes—

and little lies were prey to little birds.

I lived within a prayer, when I was with her.

And now we have North, she and I have North,

and to mourn, a week with the linden trees.

And whenever she & I are children,

we're children without tongues, and without hands.