A line as slow
and undulating as the Tongue
marks the horizon. Last summer's
fireline shadows the jaw
of the sandstone ridge.

Broken shards of hand-napped
tools litter the path. Sun drops,
and bison-dust rises
across the plain. One crystal tear
slides down the cheek of sky.

Nighthawk shrieks, and diving,
takes his prey. The Tongue laps
far below, ripples over pebbles
a song to soothe water monsters
who take us after dark.

I rehearse the night,
wide-legged, wide-eyed,
a posture of prayer,
to hold and horrify.

I could’ve torn myself,
just fragile enough,
to keep you watching,
a girl made rough.

You chose the keyhole
to savor the frame,
An exhibit of flesh,
unsigned by shame.

In cinematic detail,
you bought my fireline,
paid in cold cash,
colder still, the outline
of shadows moaning in shrine.

The mattress too wide,
too deep, too stark,
darker than my nightmares
of men made of spark.

I longed to dissolve
in the softness of your hand,
an offering, a fever,
a ruin unmanned.

But instead
you wept into mine,
as if your grief
were more divine.