Come around,
tell this night you were
our winter, upon sand.
Tell these limbs of naked trees
you were life being brought
from storied glaciers,
from an eye covered
in smothering mist.
While I
can cry away all daylight
from our side,
this defeat has been ample
in a stillborn moon,
as corners are dried in fire,
as pleasures are wiped clean
from mounting desire.
All our love faded
within glowing autumn,
among frozen winter.
All our tears escaped
to become heat in disarray,
our tension as fuel.
Nothing but miles
of buried photographs
of you, in earthen imprints,
in stagnant sentiments.
Modern Romanticism 