The stars recede into the satin
of the midnight sky, phantasm
fireflies will flicker
to replace the lights that left us;

the settled logic of a thought
that lingers somewhere in between
the ephemera of dreams,
and the transience of love:

if stars are dust, and I am, too,
then I am light, and so are you,
or else we’re fuel to feed the stars
when we collapse back into dust—

everything is temporary—
the chrysanthemum and cardinal,
the earth will saturate with spirits—
and it won’t hurt but for a second;

right before we’re long forgotten,
as the tidal wave surrounds us,
we will speak with cold precision,
Hemingway's brevity and feeling:

“Nothing ever had a meaning,
but for what we chose to give it.”
And all this time, I had been thinking
that I’d find it, if I’d been looking.
Put on your best pair of jeans
so you can come out with me—
in the deepest layer of love,
to the last outdoor theater back home—
the weather is perfect, tonight
so it’ll be worth it, all right,
and everything else fades below
the haze of this halcyon glow.
Pull, deep
from the root
of my spine,
pull out the animal:

a few
skipped meals
before I break your bones,
and suck out
the marrow.

an unlocked
safety deposit box
I adopt
with a ticket
to Mexico.

a gun
in my hand
after you’d
done it again,
so I unload.

do we
because it is right, or
'cause we're monitored?

and to that end,
have I ever been
or done anything
that was honestly good?
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