We are an error, made in gravity’s season as the sky falls.
Desperate Atlases to a fragile, fragmented late summer rule.
I move towards your illegal glow; Behind me, you put up walls.
My new laughter shines like a candle and makes me cruel.
When I lie on my side, in the dark, I dream your hand
on my side, as if it is still resting there in quiet,
at the damaged, left-hand edge of fidelity’s quicksand.
It sinks into the future I have imagined for it.