Year

Year

and I under raw dormer beams
lay waiting beneath a window
which can never give us light.

A circle of haze surrounds the crescent moon
like a shroud of mourning.
It is the corona of betrayal.

My obsession with our
luminescent mirror becomes amplified:
it glows upon your face like a fever.

Prostrate so on our bed,
my refection lies on a background of
Polaris, Betelgeuse, Alpha Centauri;
all of the bright points in our dim constellation.

my facial symmetry becomes scattered over
your distant adorations,
lost amongst the nebulas of distrust.

We had made so many plans- stretched our future

up past the ridges,
up past the plateau,
up past the sky.

But when we reached the summit we found
hand prints in the settled clouds.
Footsteps disorganized our dreamed-of white;

this union is a distortion to primal chaos.

I of the White Arms reach to
incriminate the insurmountable.
I reach to defy our old gods.

Yet this chapel retracts my defiance.
Its angles form a confining hypotenuse
over my forehead.

Year.