In the awkward air adjacent to the quivering sterility
lay the corpse of our Summer... twitch whizzing about the underworld
and all the glories afforded the stupid
and profane.

In the marshlands, where we grew our few dark orchards
and prattled on about the ' state of Things '
but without the Capital ' T '.

how we wrangled Hope into a jar of honeyed feathers
and broke bread, over north winds....  
cackling our sorrows like a hot mess
over stoic boulders
and quaint
sunsets.

and said yes.