somewhere in my dreaming there is
the sound of an aircraft descending, that long
wolf howl of mechanized air, and the screech
of rubber on cement. it leaves a little
of itself behind, latent, languorous, splayed out
like limbs of whores, an invitation
to some specific type of dusk. here in this
god-shaped hole we reach to each other,
you refuse touch, fingertips to pulse.
a messianic tide pushes up against the rocks:
the gaping of the crowd, when they see
the destruction, it will all be worth it
for the noise of that strong, dark wave.
the weight of you bends me over, bears me
over the kilns and the ovens and the fires
that make our bread and cups and life:
this is no rescue craft, there is no safe rooftop
to perch upon now. when the ravens leave
and the vultures come, your body will break
to the suck of gritty, receding shorelines.
the tide will fall, inch by inch, back to me.