Let's rewrite history
so it begins with this nocturne
I slur out for you across
the hidden evening unions.
It's late but we can't sleep,
just like in Rome when we stayed
up watching Dean Martin
feign karate with Sharon Tate,
both dubbed so badly we laughed
even though our bellies ached.
It's late but you're a snow curl
on the fat floral couch, absent
in your art book. Please, please,
start history with this -
make this page one of everything,
this single serene hour when we held
our solitude together, shields
against a world in love with fire.
Instead, the books kept filling
with their meaningless pages
of things that happened
to other people.
Whole red empires
of sweet cinder went cold,
diaries of ash swept away
by indifferent winter breezes.
But what if, what if -
that last kiss at the end
of the night had been
the first on record -
Adam and Eve could eat
their hearts out.