White Plains

White Plains


The cabin contained twos.
Two continents, two pegs,
two pairs of legs
--other lovers’ sexes, pinned
to pine slats. Left to dry and
return to two dusts, outside

the night sky.
At a time, when dusk
smells like freshly ousted
candle, Sirius siphoned breath from them
into a sidereal canopy. Watch
their breaths erect and hollow:


Two white tents backgammoned
against a surrogate sky.


Two white planes, panicked,
and surmised: you can
feel no harm here.

And sometimes when
women cry wells restore themselves
arrogant and bovine: you can feel
no harm here. Accept the slow crumbling of two
continents sepia and divine.