I touch your sharp hip bone like a weak clairvoyant.  
It is possible to love without being lovers.
The world will lose another species of toad 
before we fix our morning coffee.
The moon frowns down to earthly lovers, 
as pragmatic as a mechanical engineer.  
Here it is, the future already.  
We make love or we do not or it is love that makes us.
Even the Dead Sea is dying.
Bits of space rubbish collide like young drunks fucking.
The future is a no-holds-barred event.
But we make love like concerned cardiologists.  
Or we do not.
There is the moon, speckled with glass colonies.
Even the dead can see: you will either stay or leave
And well-fashioned machines will roll out green 
highways and high-speed  rails.
And tomorrow’s commuters will commute.

Bio: Paul-Victor Winters