Mothers crawl home on all fours
and fathers crack their hammers
into the temples of the moon.
The dogs are long gone.
The children of catastrophe
flick their knives at the sun,
shuffling from ruin to ruin
in their parents’ heavy boots,
stepping over the skeletons
of buildings and hummingbirds.
The children of catastrophe whet
their blades on the skulls of childhood.
They shave their heads
and argue about the history
of chandeliers and ballrooms.
The frogs at the water’s edge
expand into dumb balloons.
Hunted by an army of hollow men,
we race toward the sound of a dog
barking at the edge of the world.
We sleep in shifts,
cursing moonlight.
In our dreams,
the horizon binds us
with a blinding flash—
your hand in mine,
our cells married
and incandescent:
each to each,
ash to ash.