The lights out, the stars are bright.
Our bodies frail, cold and slight.
Under jackets and sweatshirts, warm clothes,
under thermal sleeping bags, time slows
and the nights goes on and on without sleep
and we stay close as the stars above slowly creep.
Up in the tower, safe for awhile, as the dead shuffle.
Every dream of paradise, every sound we must muffle.
We are spoons, side by side, hoping for warmth and peace.
I know not where to go tomorrow, how to shelter my Lanise.
I kiss her head, I breath the scent of her, she is still warm.
We are married, though no priest was left, the rites to peform.
I fall asleep, for awhile, dream of daisied fields and sunshine.
I awake, and she’s looking out over shell of campus, singing a line:
“Be the sun, and be the moon, and be the distant starlight hope.
Be my lover, be my man, and be the perfect love, and we will cope.”
The naive lilt in her voice, echoes in the dark, of things already past,
and I feel as if, maybe morning is worth it, that there’s a reason to last.