Elsewhere rain blew in. There was nothing left to say, and no one would shut up. Just a few miles away, newspapers were repeating their dirt. We stood amid the gas station’s well-lit squalor, eating ice cream. We would have walked, but where we were, there was nowhere to go.
II
Here, where
the split wood burns
who would think
that this might be
the last good time
with war
and you
growing older
but for now
asleep beside me
after how many pages
by lantern light
of your book
and mine
the Northern Cross
overhead
Lake Erie
shushing
beyond the trees
When the coffee boiled over
it was done
hot, strong, full of grounds
good drunk beneath a moon
busy washing out
night’s bright clothes
your breathing steady and deep
an echo
of the lake
your sleeping body
warm, your face
entirely beautiful
IV
the lantern
dims, gutters
campfire collapses
orangely upon itself
despite moonlight
Aldebaran
shining
Saturn rising
the night quiet
only the lake
and something
in the underbrush