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.