the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.
you lived in a widow's closet -
a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -
and then you lived in widow's charcoal.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.
(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)
"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive."