When this last and sorrowful harvest
offers her bursting yields no more,
and when our hands no longer trail
upon summer’s vast golden reunions,
consider us two as joined in sly fate,
branch for branch along tepid rivers,
as chickadees gather in the pine-tops.
We have wandered far in our time,
seen much that has swiftly blurred
from endless backwards glances,
amnesiac and brightly overexposed.
There is no totemic past, we agree,
nor ever-fleeting future in the offing,
so towering and yet unrecognized,
like a tangle of thunderheads, adrift.
Tarnish blooms now in antebellum filigree,
and a blackness creeps along the ceiling.
We’re betrothed to our steadfast decay,
wounded by knives of impossible yearning.
A voice surrenders its oblivion, a levitating
spirit untethered from exegesis and erased.
Thus forever this ceaseless circle, where
we lay upon our hidden wave-swept ruins,
solemnly weightless or desperately pure.
We’ll grow weary now, here beyond
the distant grey swarms of hills. Such
blessed paralysis for a life of movement,
taxonomic remnants a commonplace
rust, bloodstream to cooling wires, light
to dark. There is no periphery that can
remedy this, no feral howl to stay this
inevitable collapse. The years will not
cede ground, and no flames dare wither.
It’s a wonder we love anything at all,
knowing that all love ends in silence.