I was lying loose from God. Strange is it not best   
Beloved, in the New World, in this skinny life,
Intemperate with chance, my spirit quickens   
For the fall’s estate. In India, the half
Hour is the hour, we were like that then—
Jammed wrong & wrong in the diurnal
Mangy chambers of our carnall
Hearts, the rose robes rustling loose as velvet
Curtains at the stage prow, passing   
Into the strange salt air of an Indian
Ocean, hoarding kindling, heading   
West with hours, later than we might
Have known, counting tins of meats & oil left,   
If they should lose or last the night.


Photo by Tiago Donangelo Figueira on Unsplash