We were chaos in a bag of mingled skin,
two stubborn souls,
two desperate piles of bones
blind in our smothering blanketed bliss.
And we were other things:
like children, sweet slips of lisped longing
forged from nothing, and sparked chips of stone,
and the hammers of demons,
and twisted bits of colored string,
and other things lost—
so much faded like a stain on canvas
weathering storm after harrowing storm
—in the salty white peace of you and of me.