Modern Romanticism

Over again,
calm waters
let us cross into a field
where we raised
a rotting refuge
with a loose knot,
before a fever
burned it down.

We can’t keep
coming around,
to keep trying
when our cold hands
are always
wet with tears.

To keep breaking down
takes us past
our limits, more than once.
We will never
be able to see the sun,
until that knot
divides into
the best of our
symmetry.

Into the tombs
we scoop out,
from the earth
we once crawled on,
we’ll make peace
with the fall.

Autumn’s embrace
can hear us walk
far from one another
over fragile leaves,
without that disease
that kept us close
in the dark.