memory sinks deeper.
Our journey so far
has been quiet, the only
incident being that rock dislodged
as he spun around on his heel.
What was that stuff – brimstone?
The first slice of sunlight glanced off
a slab of dark marble that turned to glow.
His back moved ahead of me –
his curls, shoulders,
that neck. What new bone was he inventing
in his shuffling head, what chance
that a doorway would appear and then a house?
The dark supported me, comfortably
behind me, a cradle woven from
demon hair. As I rose
and climbed toward day, his turning head,
those eyes – strips of memory,
silver tides, moons rising over the
rim of the world—
brought back the day we were married,
standing in fine rain, then escaping from family,
sex by a rolling surf in a high wind, velvet
heavens and the stars omens:
calendars, clocks, zodiacs –
straight, bent signs.