They’re headed to the place where
everything changes back into life—
he a husk of ashes and fiber,
she pulpy with spoiled desire.
They’re going together to lay on the fire
or pray to the tree or whatever
you do wherever this is.
They are lost and have no idea.
Wade in the waters, maybe.
Or let it be a surprise.
On the way they share a mattress
full of fleas and disease,
as if they need more of these.
His kiss is a cold coal,
his hands coughs on her.
She goes to the window to be seen.
The moon is almost like that,
the bay almost like that.
The glass. Someone looking.
Shy as the wind, they fear they’ll
never do anything.
They fear they have died
or never lived.
That they couldn’t tell the difference
if they tried.
So then her kiss is flopping fish.
And holy shit—she’s gushing tides!