i am thinking of your landing,
trailing the shattered stars
above the atlantic
(where i was god and god drowned you)

i would do it over and over,
my sick obsession with
the look on your face.
you came tumbling down,
a bag of tattered thorns

but really,
who was falling?
you, who are nothing more
than an inkblot,
a blemish,
this abbreviation of grandeur

had been offered poems and pillows,
clouds and wings,
but what you chose,
they could not, to be enclosed
in this single black book.
its pages unread and rolling
like many tongues,
speaking our fire, our brimstone

your heart and your home.