I dreamed we were tuning 
our voices to crickets
We kept talking about broken trees
as a metaphor for maybe broken bones
or fingers that no longer worked
because of sunburn or jalapeno juice 
and the paralysis that ensued for years
after the incision or eruption

It wasn't Vesuvius
but I walked until my skin broke 
and if I outran the fire 
I didn't know until now
because I died anyway
in a certain way,
in a certain way. 

And later, in bed, we were cautious,
taking up each others arms
as umbrellas
as circles within which to dance

It is September
late enough in the summer
to burn candles by my bed
late enough in my life
to abandon this curated loneliness