Here, in Hell. Walking on
under smoothing rain, weeping
while you live. I love
in your field of vision,
changing ropes around you,
watering dust,
turning roses into rust.
Collapse of towers. Heaven has
crippled all our shooting stars.
While finality renders
our salience scarred,
we rope, to pull, a garden close
with hope to raise
that crucified home.
Bound, while kisses are blown
to spread dust about,
in this churning drought.
Lover’s wish, decimating you
while stars are far apart.
Loving you, wilting you –
while errors are everything.
Accept you, dissect you
in our sense of everything.
While love has handles,
carry this to fields among
letters drawn; signatures written
to times of devotion.
Lift you, sift you
in these words, collected
far apart between a duality
of hearts.
Modern Romanticism 