These details and their temporal degradation
spit stillness and reciprocal snow
At night, carillons scream like gulls
streaming through sexually-bruised skies
and lighting on the relief of faces
You smile as if this were understanding
The fire department, slow to respond, hungry
slide as if on strings down the street
and reach a conflagration. Somehow
we're holding hands, maybe
to ward off the vicious pink of the clouds
Anyway, we're in love, adjacent
and content as per this series of treaties
That haunted pang still hurts when I walk
--
Lewis LaCook
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