Once upon a time, before we were supposed to be happy
— I mean, de jure — we used to be just like that — happy
when left to our own devices. Of course, there were certain
urges, but we tricked them away with a loosely defined sin.
Sometimes we were quiet, lying on the grass-textured rug,
tired after a frivolous grapple over the last bite of croissant,
other times pretending one couldn’t answer the other’s call
of names learned overnight to be forgotten with the dawn.
And I’d like to think we were decent, even if we eluded
being caught only for a little while.
hidden pilcrow 