Excuse me, lover. I’m busy foretelling
and protesting your end. Whether I hunt,
gather, barter, or sell, what I worry over
is the order: live oaks, shorelines,
wide-eyed and flammable
creature I adore. By day, I admit
no shadow as backup: crow, please keep
your clever forensics. What would I do
with a cardboard guitar, a map of the planets,
and a box of building blocks,
alone? Another bereavement
I haven’t unlearned: to bury one hope
inside another, and I, having made a home
of limbo (I keep a black hole more spotless
than cozy), once traveled through time
at will, invisible. Now, not so free. My beloved
grows heavier, hardier, heavenward.
Certain grief pre-scorches me.
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