in the hot and choking advance
of decisions incalculable and apathetic
utility comes to a sludgy stop.
in days where god dies
and those structures we’ve rested our thoughts on
leak out of our ears,
will you accompany me
to a beach-side sunrise
where it’s too cold, and your stomach hurts?
your normally smiling face may be made stern
confronting so much light-
and perhaps you’ll retreat into me.
what good are pearls, once strung?