When the world begins to stir again, these
highways will be the first to go.
Grass will mortar their fine seams, trees
buckle their crust. By the time snow
has leavened our handiwork beyond reproach,
some sad, human part of me imagines
that our retreat to modest hearths was willed, each
mindful of the heft even children’s
boots bear. But I deceive myself;
when the world begins to stir again, it mixes
from scratch, borrows nothing from the shelf
of our concern, our breathlessness, our sexes’
desperate alchemy. Grasp tight
the iron ladle, stir us into night.