This sadness, this halved skull
filled with wildflowers. We arrive
on a rickshaw of night clouds,
winter air draped around us
like a beached blue animal, wet
and dry as silk. Cocoon gauze.
What dies inside these chambers
doesn’t matter. Some blood moons
implode and become a miracle
of tossed snow without body,
without obituary. We sew webs
in dark attic corners. Our chests
widen into lakes deep enough
for someone beautiful to drown in.
We let them. This is how desire
shapes like a map: we disappear.