I look down, and there
is a city I know like I know
you, and she’s drifting, fading,
slow. Her limbs, splayed
across the mattress of the earth,
are traced like the contours of a map
with the flickering lights of people’s homes.
The on-and-off shuddering of a child
afraid of the monsters in the closets.
I can almost feel the dips of her thighs
and I wonder if she knows we’re dying,
if I know I’m dying, if I know that I am just
afraid of the dark, afraid that perhaps
I’ll never see her again, and I fly.