In All the Futures

You are still on the island we love,
you are in a bathtub, twice framed by water,

and let’s say in this scenario,
the red-whiskered bulbul that was born

outside our door, nesting by the desiccated toad,
is now seventy years old.

Say we believed enough times
with thorough sincerity the promises

that we will happen to die
on the same day. For

all these years, we let the old waves
fold over our ordinary heads