of a Whale and a Swoosh (or On Assuming)

There are not many more things I'd like than you explaining why, me explaining how,
while we wait for the crash of the flagrant surreptitiousness of it all.
There are not many more things that exist
than those days in autumn and the empty hours ahead.
I'd punch my heart into paper with these words again and again:
Let's walk.
Let's walk.
Let's walk.
And you with all your guarded curiosity would let loose the words,
And your eyes so small could see all the world.