Little crumbs and tree and bone
           and all that's left of time inside
our bodies and I am insatiable
           when it comes to saving you,
my ally, my last wreckage of.
           It's business, this vanishing, to come
and go like little mice. We don't survive.
           Because of each other. We survive. Marriage
is a wilderness we must all come out
           of. Pull me from the poplar. Let's learn
to un-love like a million others. There
           are centuries surrounding us on both
sides: years of doom and dagger,
           years of lict and licked. And what
we love about time is what we love
           about failure: we can't stop it. It comes
towards us with both hands. It glows
           for us in the night. A wife tethered
to a husband tethered to a wife. We last,
           because we have lasted. Because leaving
is the hardest way to travel. It's brave
           to lose the part of you that can't be lost.
To whittle a marriage down to its bones
           and finally say I want you to be gone in the morning.
Outside there's a kingdom full entirely
           of newness. Inside we are two old gods.
There is no space we can keep together.
           In the rung, tough cold we'll kiss heaven
goodbye. And the bed will fight us
           from across the room, where still we'll come,
and breathe as we go: nth and nth and nth.