What more are you -- the air in which I burn?

The after-ash? The winter's long lament?

I dreamt of lava halfway through the room,

Inching over the aeons toward our bed,

Its heady heat birthing the continents,

Scorching the walls, swallowing furniture--

The legs of chairs, the lamp, the old armoire.

A pair of shoes became a wisp of smoke;

The rug, a lawn of vivid fire-blades.

We slept till dawn: I envy you your liquid dreams,

How cool you keep in a catastrophe, how far.

Awake, not having said enough is no excuse

Not to say more - and yet love knows no words,

But burns and burns with its interminable shock.

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