A moonshine mason jar appeared, 
hot and bright when he needed
to prop the flowers up—lilies 
that had yet to unfurl fragrance 
in a room pinned down by elegies
that someday must be written.
His wristwatch had grown 
a minute slow since last year.  
He didn't notice but did feel 
something slipping past: a ghost 
making demands only a lover 
would dare, binding his second 
hand with a stray hair. Unlocking 
his fears with a Mont Blanc.
Apple-picking on each other's 
shoulders, drunk on the season. 
Nor would they let the sun go 
down till each had promised things 
neither of them had to give.