the fate of: dear sibyl,

divine. as jupiter sent you
so very fitting,
we are
like the reptile
and the mildewed black rock
in june.

we fight,
with our fists at our sides

(and our slimy, lizard tongues
twisting over phrases
we morph into
sinful ideals).

we play tag in the sun,
reducing its complexity
with every light touch
against its back,

placing upon it the burden
of each crack that splinters
on the rock's face

and every miscarriage
of the lizard.

we learn
no romance avoiding its glare

we place
our favors
in the pool of next year

because the sun will not age,
dear sibyl and i,
and just how civil is that?