We reach the beginning of the last night on earth and sit outside. My eyes blink at a darkness so large. We look on and on and in the sky swirls a ribbon. I was angry. Nothing happens. We are a waiting type, gazing from the highway and toward the mountain for something we have never seen. Nothing happens. The pavement turns to sand turns to dry grass turns to rocks to a pile to the sky to the stars and in this vastness nothing happens. The whiskey burns and we share a          You stop speaking; it's as if I walk alone all night past blank houses where nothing keeps. The calendar swirls a ribbon. Out here there's no punishment, the mountain a form hard to distinguish. The day lead up to this. We sat like two strangers. On the right were there photographs. I think I'll burn this house down. I think the photographs were dedicated to a secret we used to keep, but they don't mean anything. 






























A house, almost, pretends to be. 
Of that almost house, I dream every night. 
When Caroline, still breathing, as house all lit, 
In a half-dreamt wilt sounds like she 
Can be a coastline. When she's dusky she 
Looks out the window to a darker sonnet. 
Pink through the eyelids, home now left, left, 
Right of brined water already a too-distant memory. 
Pull the people from the shadows 
Like flames. Divine a path to Caroline one room over 
Becomes a place we can visit. This statue goes 
Pieces at a time, cedar not quite cedar, 
Less luminous row after row because the body
Betrays. What lasts can't be the days, the calendar only. 






























At night the west is a darkness so large the porch turns red. Its voice I am finding unchanged: the same shirts folded. Creaks shift one room over. How that morning still exists, is a place we can visit. I see it: the calendar hung by Caroline's hands. To keep love fresh, share a plum. Rough magic thread-count losing. What's a girl got to do for some luminous body shifts from one room over. Ah there, there. A hand-covered mouth I here abjure.