We hold each other in

Picture by Jerome Prax

There was this light in her eyes as she said it,

‘As a kid, I remember finding out deserts are cold places.’

She was dressed by her apartment; full of a life of things.

The city was blue above mirrors below, through her windows.

April mornings have the first cold light.

I was in my apartment; dressed by the thought of coming things.

I thought of the desert, while, over the city, rainless clouds blew in –

air over sand dancing, shifting, reaching blue.

When I’ve been in anything like a desert, the sun burnt through the dry air.

Though I’ve never been in a real desert,

some northern suburbs, concreting over, maybe –

the desert dressed by houses; unsure of encroaching things:

painted roofs glaring desolate to blue like shifting sands.

It gets cold at night in deserts; suburbs are too full of things.

Once, we climbed a small mountain, ran out of water and drank from its streams.

I thought of the tops of mountains: water boils at a lower temperature.

There’s nothing to hold in the air’s dancing; heat, just endless motion in the miniature of things.

In the darkest colds of space – well just in space, not so far, really, if you think about it –

the liquid in your body boils as it freezes.

There’s no air to hold it in;

it dances too quickly and suddenly stops —

We were dressed by her apartment as she said it.

We remembered finding out deserts are cold places, never having been.