We met in church. Or, out of church
We met before, two stray delinquent friend-of-friends
Introduced, then. But never met before
I took you where the adults studied their book 
We feasted on coffee and sweets while their heads were bowed in prayer
And then we left them, heads down, unaware

Behind the church and down the pavement
Through the desert of smog and parking lots
Only the young and transient walked these suburban streets
The adults moved idly by in tinted bubbles to a street light’s beat

Finally, we reached a park
And watched the trees rain autumn ember
It was the only place in California where the seasons ran
Already I wished that I could hold your hand

And in that empty garden we sang our tribal songs
Untaught taut lips that snapped so sharp and swift
Songs no one before nor ever-after sing
Us and our kith alone, who ruled this age like bandit kings

And in the eyes of angels up above and deep below 
We sat together in the garden and exchanged
The secret rites and myths that we had written
For ourselves, the first and only generation

And as we walked the lake, insects danced on the water
Dead leaves deteriorated underneath the delicate waves into new life
And within the sacred art ticking and teeming everywhere, the irreverent laughter of Satan ran through us there
Like the Divine had lit a flame that burned so wild it dared defy His own design
And left as ashes a few words, of days long since consumed by the young
In the golden California sun