. . . . . THE CONDITIONAL Say tomorrow doesn't come. Say the moon becomes an icy pit. Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified. Say the sun's a foul black tire fire. Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks. Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain. Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter. Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse. Say we never get to see it: bright future, stuck like a bum star, never coming close, never dazzling. Say we never meet her. Never him. Say we spend our last moments staring at each other, hands knotted together, clutching the dog, watching the sky burn. Say, It doesn't matter. Say, That would be enough. Say you'd still want this: us alive, right here, feeling lucky. —a.l.