I see you around, your eyes hooded,
so magnificently bare and desolate,
so like a natural monument of stone.
You would become my makeshift grave on the plains of
Wyoming, your canvas hands enshrouding me;
winter-brown eyes, like iced earth.
I could carve into your frozen chest,
but would only be able to inter my little bones
in the topsoil, your rocky depths unplunged.
