At a diner near Nye,
where no one has heard of cancer,
and everyone sleeps
drinking Templeton Rye,
you are sitting across from me.
Your shadows arrive like vagabonds,
Your hands conceal a furnace,
tastes of cinnamon snow.
Yet, I have learned
that there’s a price for each invitation
and an avalanche awaiting every sin.
But my pockets are finally empty
and my cuff-links are made of tin.
Are you this tired
of what remains of my mind?
Will there be an ark?
A turquoise ring?
Will this tarred womb
give birth to a wing,
at a diner near Nye?