“Our disappearance, though certain, is only relatively imminent.” – Paul Preciado

As bare branches sway in cold;
as puddles turn to ice, then crack with ease;
as austere skies split and our telescopes,
trained on the great exuberance, glimpse our fate
of destruction by the sun, so I love you,
all the more because, billions of years before,
our blood will have briefly swirled and swooned.

I want to kiss on Saturn’s rings;
I want death by quasar, by solar wind;
I want you where I can have you, especially here,
on this waterlogged planet, your back pressed full
against the soil and I, soaked in salt,
pressed full against you.

When I dissolve into memory let no one
say I died for this or that: say I lived for you;
say I was a comet, an acorn—
the knowable universe, nothing.