Two weeks revolve in prospect like a postcard stand.
Your mother’s money’s gotten us a clean room
near a school. She hasn’t much but means
to help us build from scratch a world.
Would we have dropped out sooner had we known?
Wakened from a lovers’ nap by choruses of play
rising through the wide window, we lie,
drowsy, murmuring plans for the islands
through young life’s yelled elation and alarm.
We don’t know that Pelops was the eaten
Isaac of an older god, haven’t learned the bed
is a soft fulcrum between kinds of sacrifice.
Broken marble still to come, speechlessness
not yet a bandage we can’t stop playing with,
these unscratched minutes are our golden age.