when nice was easy

what were you when you were little, that you are not no more?

where has your boat since traveled, when first you saw the shore?

what stories did you believe then, no not believe, but know?

What things would you have swore to as simply being so?

What dancing did you do then, the instant the music played?

What magic lie in its rhythms that older life has slayed?

how would or could you return there, that moment when Christ was fresh?

when every bit of your memory and your choice was babie’s flesh?

perhaps a walk on the shoreline, a giving up of vice

can take you there once more, my friend, and return your “cold” to “nice”.

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