I fear these things are all going back to sand again anyway:
windows, mirrors, bottles
(no matter their brittle nostalgia for the furnace)
the slow agony of objects releasing form and function.
The ocean will slip miles inland to help the last weary girders fall.
Beloved, let the constellations dance into something else
over everything we’ve ever known or held,
drowning us under eons of sodden time;
and shelter, for as long as we can, in each other’s arms.
First published in Top Tweet Tuesday on September 23, 2025.