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
Even the dead weep for our isolation;
in the pit of night, I dream of you at my
side, bleary-eyed, maskless. We stare
out the same window at the same desolation.
I want to touch what aches in us, the light
we guard to stay alive. My dear, come quick.
I hear a knock; I’m afraid. Is it you?
I dare to open and let hope come through.
Your eyes are a moan drenched and lost in time,
You blink the dawn from dusk and back again
As though the world were yours and I were thine
And none but the poets intoned, “Amen!”
What need have I to say your name, my heart?
When the cruelest hour strikes and I’m awake,
I know you by your brushstrokes—ancient art
you must leave unsigned, lest dreamers forsake
One day she arrived
like a scab dragged across a ballad
of iodine,
a sequin of stars
stitched to a dormant volcano’s lapel