I swear to high heavens,
your morning kisses
are sweeter now
than they will ever be again.
Deep in my soul—
that mandolin on the mountain
keeps singing me two truths
both plain and secret as
that shady grove
that you love me sweet and
I love you so.
Script like hell’s dragon fire
scrolls with crimson flames & cinder sparks
as your name sears its way
throughout the many chambers of my heart.
Peer out those frosty windows,
wrapped in wool and the weather-resistant
arms of another, kisses pressed
to the palms of my cold and aching flesh
and the sides of my white-washed face.
Pine fire snaps and flash of flame
play shadow games on the rustic walls of
the cabin we claimed as two fugitives
in a headlong rush from the cannibal cities.
Our kingfisher flight through a biting,
frigid night, one step away
from the cynical, sinister sway
of men and women, living wraiths,
hunkered down in rotting rooms
of come what may.
One whisper remains, as he pulls
his gentle lips back from my cold face—