Epithalamia

 

Butane, propane
and lungful of diesel.
I did not stand a chance.

Always with poison
breath, bill, responsibility:
a man with rote hands.

Everything in exchange,
rain in a frozen season.
Our roof, roofs strung

with hot wire. Our love,
what was, an impression
of light, gaunt: there is

nothing to get.

 
 
—Joan Kane