Burn

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The Hoolocks

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That summer night after the rain
They walked down by the stream
He laid his black coat on the bank
In hope.
The only people left on earth
Were him and her it seemed
They could reach the shooting stars there
From the slope
Breathing softer, sighing louder
As the black and white greyed
Until she gave herself entire
Tight as snakes they coiled themselves
Did he have the right?
The first time he put his hands under the folds
And into the fire
She hoped that he could see her ghosts
That he could be mad too
They left their childhoods
Never to return
Caught in a delirium
That they could not subdue
It drew them to the flames
And they were burned
Was it a baby? Even life?
Will heaven hold its rage
Against those it creates imperfectly?
Are all our destinies written
So faintly on the page?
No colder crumbs of comfort than:
"It was not meant to be"
He can't remember when
The letters stopped, that February
She'd settled but he upped and moved away
If philosophers were kings, he'd have the words
The tragedy is he still loves her
More than he can say
Burned
Burned

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