It's so hot
So torrid in broken-heartland
I'd become accustomed to warm wintry
stolidity
"Our everything" murmured blistering
undertones from so far away
What sad moths we were–why
did we ever succumb to the flame?
I’d never listen to music with wandering
chords–since then I never listen
to love-drawn swords;
All I see is four hands molding
sculptures from aching cells
and then hating themselves
like Michelangelo's Raphael
I see your eyes, drawn away like
flimsy curtains and feel it all again
the falling together and falling
apart
That inestimable work of art
museum hall guards forgot
to monitor; we felt it all then and now–
nothing
except during these stifling midnight minutes
When upon a frenzied impulse I want to do something, when
I want to do something wrong—
I want to put on
our long-
forgotten
moth-drawn love songs