Running Away Together

It will be an island on strings well out to sea and austere bobbing as if at anchor green with enormous fir trees formal as telephone poles. We will arrive there slowly hand over hand without oars. Last out, you will snip the fragile umbilicus white as a beansprout that sewed us into our diaries. We will be two bleached hermits at home in our patches and tears. We will butter the sun with our wisdom. Our days will be grapes on a trellis perfectly oval and furred. At night we will set our poems adrift in ginger ale bottles each with a clamshell rudder each with a piggyback spider waving them off by dogstar and nothing will come from the mainland to tell us who cares, who cares and nothing will come of our lovelock except as our two hearts go soft and black as avocado pears.