No longer wrapped in disconnected wool,

the aurora writes me to sleep. God

 

should do something for us the way lawn

sprinklers do something for us. The way

 

we can sit on the stovetops when they

are cold and feel mortality. But

 

the borealis does not take my head, we are

not dishonest nature poems. Our spit

 

tastes of almonds and there is only ink

in the bathtub. Unafraid,

 

we drink tall glasses

of something dark.