the misanthrope
is buried in alaska
i know this because
you told me once
sitting on a square picnic table
beneath a dry dark sky
lit with acid green borealis
cassiopeia and orion
the only witness
to a wedding meant
for other people
another time, another place
blah, blah, blah
you get the picture
just a far off
long gone
atmospheric memory
rippling light and music
to lovers in a land
we’d only dreamt of
we watched in silence
for hours
those hours,
cradling minutes,
the quiet,
bone cold
seeping up
through cheap
cracked boots
and hol(e)y
handmade
mittens
