Elk Lake, MI

There is no horizon

between the night sky and the edge of this lake, named for its abundance

of an animal that within a decade of naming

was hunted extinct. I speak too much of apocalypse

says my new love, to whom I cannot admit

the rings of Saturn

are disappearing. Its gravity overwhelms the tiny moons fighting

to keep the bands in place. As we witness

the citrine body from the midnight dock,

I say instead how one ring wavers so precisely

it makes music

we could record on sheets. Doing so would reveal what lies

at the inner core, but there are more important endeavors.

We have begun, before bed, singing silly love songs

until guitar strings slice his fingertips and he apologizes

for the softness. He makes me

tomato soup & grilled cheese while I shower and then

joins me. Kisses my knees, my fingertips. Every body part we dipped in the lake

burns, and I explain

how on Saturn, the rings are made of ice—some grains as small as sugar, some as wide

as a house. And what if we do? Make a house of our love, with a garden

of tomatoes, spicy arugula. Orchards of stone fruit & an abundance

of choke cherry to sustain the little herd of elk that's been reintroduced. Time

means nothing against efforts of love.

We still have 100 million years

before Saturn loses its rings, but mere centuries since Galileo

first found the planet in his telescope and mistook the rings for ears.

I understand this desire, I do.

To hold a face between my hands and call it golden.