I feel as though our love is hopeless,

ill timed. My desire peaking

before yours, served only by hapless

messengers, carrying

gossip from soul to soul, pollen

dusted on their feet. Your

lust too late, your reaction too

slow. This perfect world has

arranged this to protect itself

from our love, I guess, to keep

our young from overrunning the

planet, to keep our colors hot and

unfulfilled, to keep our hunger


by Cher Bibler