Escape a cautious sun, a caldera
wind. You and I, origami lost in the weeds.
Weave flowers into chains. Your name. Mine.
Discover a bloated tree. Carefully, handfuls
of beetles. Nobody speak. Nobody listen to
the very worst voices.
If in due time. If a disadvantaged day
brought to boil. Morning + contrary.
Sky = cathedral. And walls, round
and round, their molten shade, run us
backwards,
afraid of being
afraid, wondering
if the light behind
clouds is fire. Regretful of
what happens behind
the chapel. Of
stones in a circle. Stones float upward. How
early in the evening a woman feeds us sweets
like the mother we don’t recall. She sings us a
lullaby. Our lungs fill with steam. Forget
kissing on a hill. We spit at the sky.
(originally published in Tofu Ink)