Left

It has become such
that we cross oceans of solitude
to islands of it;
crossed as lovers affixed with blinding lights,
searching to meet themselves there.

In my lake-- a cliff,
adorned and enamored of one such light--

in our waters-- a nation of them,
a glowing map of leftovers
surveyed from deep-space:
a midnight-sundial married to a full-moon-flashlight.

High ensign!
Lit for it, or us?
Streetlights for company, or warmth?

It has become such
that we wash in the cold water of alone
and cook in empty kitchens, over
treasured pieces of long-dead coal.