Forty hundred spits shoot from a thanksgiving horn
Those flecks of red pierce the craggy earth like anchors-
That’s one spit you can’t un-spit.
Let the noxious concrete make a fossil of you and I
Joined at the hands like baby cherubs
You, in your lemonade yellow dress
(I didn’t forget the velvet sash)
I, in my vest and tie
(I didn’t forget to do it up)
And if our manor on the hill should dissolve
Be it so- it wasn’t about that, anyway.
The best lovers in the world tip toe to Marty Robbins
And grace the edges of cashmere cheekbones
But when the time comes,
They become one with the magma.