In Us We Trust
       

Dirt clods at midnight, Vidalia weeps love
as the sea sucks in the pugilists
like a open-mouthed boat. Less, then, less river,
more canyon, at the apex
the watch falls to sleeping. Naïve on the rim
of a glass teacup,

the one I desire. Nightshuffle and run,
parch and rise, in the dark we curse
for some to wick, snuff out
when we do. Just then on leave without pay
the skyscrapers regularized and quiet
as disgust.

Later, not now, the dirt coughs us up
like nitrogen, and we sit miles above
and we laugh. There is peace
and there are stars, there is
the solid fact
that now we are better than the dead.

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Copyright © 2014 Brittany Cavallaro and Rebecca Hazelton All rights reserved
from No Girls No Telephones
Black Lawrence Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission