You were running down the stairs
against a clamoring sky and
nearly the sunset was
so mindlessly red, dark and clambering.

I was going away to Sacramento
to keep a word,
if that really means a thing and
I spread my bleak, prairie palm
to receive the whiteness
of your blessings
our deaths and mindlessness
so there was nothing else to be,
to be conquests
to be dreams,
and worlds of to be
dry stalk and debris sculpted
from our lovemaking
our once lovemaking and
a fire and not a bird of fire
to be again and seriously
chant Hari Om or even Maya!
We were talking but fairy tales.