Morning comes into our room, sun through blood. The boy is pliant in
bee pajamas. He is plush as a chair in a loge. Love, love, carves out our
ribs. We climb around a bare cage and link fingers. Love has made us
sharp as broken bottles. The boy’s cheek is soft as a stamp pad. He is
dreamy as the street name for an elbow, a couple of ankles and a cup (all
we have left to give each other). Get up, get up he calls, clear as serum.
We do pour the cup with juice. You and I dissolve at the edges. We are
naked to microwaves. Our chests hurt, we are excavated by his joy. His
stories run over us, so loud and round-edged and strung together with so
many dazzling downed wires. World, we hide our craterhood from him.
World, I never thought we would be glued so quickly, two stems to a
branch, together. Goodnight, our pulborn. We go willingly into
extinguishment. We look at the boy and our hearts [flash pop cloud glass]
blank out.