And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,
willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.
No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.
Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,
Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.
Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow
sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.