Ending the world
the way we did
felt good—a slow flood
of sleep
after walking ourselves
weak—nothing between
the square of sunlit rest
the window marks
on the bed
for us and softening
like a swollen stream
the moments
it meets
the sea.

The Plein Airs brush
eucalyptus trees
along my morning
freeways, bathe me
in an orange light
more sunset
than sunrise.
My windshield’s too wide
to focus on
from the inside
but I’ve got a song
just right
for the top of this curve
where the road
hits the sky—
fine with the cars ahead,
the road,
the yellow lines.

Under a half moon,
hair all leaf-blown,
I see you home.
In through the window
we watch the sky
unfold. I listen
to stories about stars
against your arm.

—an ode to Ascendosphere 42 by Eva Lundsager

Up the earth split
and out spit
a fount of steam.
Though where it rose
it seemed the toes
of two feet
almost met
the effect was really
clouds of steam
and the ominous
color of wet cement
with the same pooling
tarnished silver gets—
all this event
and no wonder
we let slip
our molten core.