Dear Lover,
Our love was summer-drowned:
naked sweat in June,
stale beer in a keg fed through a funnel.
Our reckless plan was to dig a tunnel
through the unshed tears of the faceless moon,
a secret passage from me to you,
where flowers swayed to the bees’ bumble,
and lust-hungry Earth would rumble
and choke on serpent envy at monsoon.
We were a flaming star painted in a brash stroke
heedless of time etching strokes on our backs.
Love came and went like summer passed,
ten days, two hours, twelve minutes since we spoke.
I woke last night, head aflood with your name
thinking of how love stalked us from its grave.