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.