Our eyes of scattering crows,
will see this town obliterate us
back to phone numbers
and addresses. Love ends
in smoking silk numerology,
with streamers and fakir ropes
of steam dissipating from 3s
or 9s, until 3319 is a number
once again, and not a church
where the risen held each other
into a jumping forest of sleep,
for a sure exchange of dreams.
I had the ambition of jet engines,
while you could lay out time soft
and easy as a picnic blanket.
As I die, your antique pendant
will rush again as a gold creek
veiny into the palest apple hills.
I hope to visit you just then
as something more than a speed
of men in doors; maybe proof
of your boldest miles travelled.
We sail as comets close round
the Earth, then off to the grevious
cold of interstellar space. (Love
lost still blows this universe apart.)
We turn, the door clicks bone shut,
then strangers form the heavens
once again for astronomers like us,
each sky chaotic, fine as quantum light.