City at the End of the Earth

I don't care that you're in California
while I am landlocked in
Bloomington, I want to see
with arms outstretched, our names
calligraphed on a marquis
blue-golden glowing down on a darkened eve
snow falling, I want to hold tight to you
my rope over the edge, the last
stars I count before sleep, the name I pronounce
carefully, when the world is heavy on my back

When I fall, I hear the Earth whistle
"be sweet tonight" please
don't be subtle. Call me up or
barter me with dandelions, rocks,
light bulbs that would be stars, names, because
when the mist clears, when the moon
rises, when the snow is calculatingly piled
my feet tired from many climbs,
falls, and re-climbs, I want to see
our names, a matrix of memories and failures,
half-spoken actions, written near the sky
in some foreign city I have yet to love

When you hold my hands, I can
hear the end of things
and I am not scared of comets or satellites,
or the words that light up a snow-fallen night