Closed For Season

The Drive-In is closed for the season, or forever,
beneath a grey and cloudless sky without a moon.
We sit in my car that goes nowhere, never will again,
and make up our own movies, ones where we are angels.
The child sleeps in the backseat, innocent of this death,
the death in our skins and hearts and the world we loved.
I take her hand in mine, the sky without a care about us,
as we wait for otherworldly light to shine in a lightless dark.
The water in the bottle is hot and there’s no ice anymore.
She is feverish and I am too and we just dream of being angels.
The child is asleep, and at peace and innocent of this world.
I kiss my girlfriend. She’s been my wife if the world hadn’t broken.
I kiss her and I can taste the sun and the stars and what love was once.
Then the light comes and we sit back in the buckets seats.
The light we foreswore takes up the child, to live in anotehr world.
But the seed is in all flesh, innocent or corrupt, holy or infernal.
That world will break like this one and everyone before it.
It never ends, and we cannot escape, no other urge but demiurge.
No other place but home, no other heart but ours, no other sun at all.

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