Our craft carries us desolate
through wilderness to waterless
          places as we pledge among ruins to

drink only of each other’s love,
flesh scorched, night-living survivors
          of daylight’s knives courting our demise as

if it might ignite this good white
stuff to smothering snow, to cold
          manna that heaven might cool us off by

showering down what from within
causes better men to drown, though
          too slow, so it goes, then, this is our end,

damaging narratives just to
fit in one night’s impossible
          promises, two friends extinguished in one

another’s presences, twins in
our sinning presenting symptoms
          of limerence, not romance, acceptance

of this liminal existence
impossible, when, since neither
          biblical nor interested in its

miserable little lies or
similar legends, contented
          enough for now to become substances

if nothing else more substantial
than pillars of salt such as Lot’s
          wife was assaulted with, flaunt to flaking

quaking shafts, columns as of wax
fated to crumbling, cotton to
          the flame smouldering giants and silent

tragedians and witness well
a miracle’s performance, in
          its knowing how even stars fizzle out.