The water in your flower vase five days old, my radio losing its signal as the sky draws near. Or is it fear of dying alone that moves us toward each other in this room, petals falling on a Bible marked in red. Only static hiss from a local station comforts us, signing off in a still small voice that echoes in our bones, a moon now painting the side of a broken bed where our faces grow too heavy for us to lift, and the room we share starts sinking into the ground. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org |