Last night, we got drunk on Indiana Jones
racing through the underbelly of temples,
breaking gods and errant priests with his whip
then hurtling home afterwards
as a mist hung over the moon.
We fell asleep dreaming of adventure,
holding each other against the fear
of never being able to fly again.
In the morning, we are exhausted, soaked from
the summer sun trapped overnight in tarmac.
I am steeped in stillness,
pretending to be nothing more than river.
The blanket lifts the top of the current,
foghorns out at sea are lonelier than ever.
The fan spins as fast as it can without
tearing off and flying somewhere else.
We have nowhere to go;
it is too early to be full of frustration,
so we become tongues of cool water,
slip our skins through the window,
past the last of the night clouds.
Where do bodies end?
Do we return to god
or become, valleys we’ve yet to see?
I hold you like a dam holds back
the edge of an ocean, now we dance
against the silhouette of songbirds,
now we are dissolving into air.
Be my hummingbird, my long kiss,
be my electric way home.
Let me tell you the same story
with a different ending every single time.
