Taut, like a candle wick
pre-flame,
before the pillar buckled
and You forgot our names;

there were city lights here, once,
or so I heard it said—
I figure lights just beckon moths,
as moons do waves,

or faults do quakes (the skyline
falls)
our cells connecting,  
disconnecting,
blinking out like stars;

and turning back, we see the city
through smoke;
“Goodbye, Gomorrah,”
we hum,
reposed in salt.