we fall asleep in the mouth
of a not-so-ancient volcano,
her shrapnel in our pockets -
a worry stone for us to thumb

the Milky Way spins by above
as we, two beetles in the sand,
catch the shooting stars
somewhere between then and now

a bird swoops for a crane fly
and so do I for you, caught
in the amber of afternoon -
we are pumice in the palm

asleep in the volcano’s mouth
I reach for you and find you
buried in the crumbling hillside
wishing, once more, for warmth