8/16/13

Eight sixteen.

I can't pretend to know anything.
Just this morning 
you offered me a cup of sleep
in the house where our bodies
first became one in the other
and our howls were those of wolves 
for the celestial body,
for the fullest moon. 

I can't pretend to know anything. 
Just last month
you spoke of cosmic catastrophes 
of our sun expanding 
of our seas boiling 
of waving goodbye to all we've known
and I wept because I desire to live
as long as the world itself. 

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