I wrote us into a book
well, two really
One version takes place
in Pompeii and you are
a boy named Caecilius
You are a boy who dreams
vividly of his Julia being swept
away in the tides of lava
She calls out for her love
and in your grandfather’s
house, your limbs twitch,
paralyzed in their sleeping
In the other book of us,
we are Vernon and Agnes
and we live in the shadow
of Mount Saint Helens
I sweep mounds of ash
off our porch the day after
she erupts, trying to recall
if I am in mourning, if
it is true that you were
the helicopter pilot they
can’t find and yes I know
in these books there are
too many natural disasters
but isn’t that love, really