Christopher Cessac
Loving, New Mexico

Let that burning wheatless dust spit gas at us
and let the more efficient tend to their just-soiled

dinnerware—who faced with eternity
would not tremble? Let the temperate grovel

in our wine-soaked mud, let flowers come
by armful to decent old lovers—no horror or joy

unsettles us now. Let it burst or collapse,
the whole world, its rose petals and grease traps—

The doors locked, our limbs knotted, in love
with love—let them all burn slow with envy.