Loving,
New Mexico  Let that burning wheatless dust spit gas at us and let the more efficient tend to their just-soiled dinnerware—who faced with eternity would not tremble? Let the temperate grovel in our wine-soaked mud, let flowers come by armful to decent old lovers—no horror or joy unsettles us now. Let it burst or collapse, the whole world, its rose petals and grease traps— The doors locked, our limbs knotted, in love with love—let them all burn slow with envy. |