We braced for the fall into blue majesty,

dive-bombing and splinters, 

but were left sunning our backs over the ozone layer.

Before we felt the burn we turned to vapor.

No telling leaves or auguries could save us 

from piecing apart like monkey bread.

Cinnamon mist and sticky fingers.

---

There is no pain in oblivion rising 

up your ankles,

unfelt like death sleep,

unsung like old ships under the sea.

Our treasure rusted green

for gargoyle fish to imagine what was—

---

a grin down a Roman nose,

your diamonds around my throat,

a choker to remember you by,

once we ran through our summertime—

---

we thought we’d at least remember.

Char and salt, broken rhythms,

dementia of altitudes 

leave nothing for new lovers to go by.

We’re stone gods gaping faceless,

robbed of our powers by the slow-swinging mastodon

before the age of cell phones blasted us all

off the face of love.