There is no way to go back and erase your name
from the tree. Its bark will always bear the scar and
witness the path, which leads us back between the corn fields,
to where white blossoms blow along an empty lane.
There is no way to go back and gather more sand
from the beach, to refill the hour glass time wields
in my face. We try to drown each other; a game
for lovers splashing in white surf, hand grasping hand.
There is no way to go back and lower our shields
from our faces. Though they armour us against pain,
so we have to hit all the harder to win and
avoid a white feather, when neither of us yields.
