Astrophel and Stella must have known their
weird names would bind them, born for
their opposite’s hand, and birthing so clean
a vacuum of their need. They are on top
of a burning building, its floors pancaking
beneath them. This is obviously no country
for love, she says. This is not so desperate yet
for the blade I wish to slit us in two,
for the catgut line meant to tie us together
again. He thinks these things and more,
yearns to dip his hand beneath the sea shell
flat of her face, but counts on his fingers
an empty hand. The skyline ablaze,
enshrined in smoke, the heat blurring
the rest of the horizon, she reasons:
I’m in the wrong disaster. A tornado rips
the roof off my car, and I swim in the open
air of the seats. I can drown in the floorboards,
or get sucked into the sky’s looming mouth.
You have to choose which one. I am there.