That dusty bubble gum, once ubiquitous as starlings, 
is no more, my love. Whistling dinosaurs now populate 
only animation studios, the furious actions of angels 
causing their breasts to flop out in mannerist 
frescos flake away as sleet holds us in its teeth. 
And the bus-station's old urinals go under 
the grindstone and the youthful spelunkers 
graduate into the wrinkle-causing sun. The sea 
seemingly a constant to the naked eye is one 
long goodbye, perpetually the tide recedes, 
beaches dotted with debris. Unto each is given 
a finite number of addresses, ditties to dart 
the heart to its moments of sorrow and swoon. 
The sword's hilt glints, the daffodils bow down, 
all is temporary as a perfect haircut, a kitten 
in the lap, yet sitting here with you, my darling, 
waiting for a tuna melt and side of slaw 
seems all eternity I'll ever need 
and all eternity needs of me.

= Michael Champlin