“The glazed night sky torques and writhes and buckles
over Lake Ella. We’re holding hands, sometimes
our wedding rings make an ugly clack.
It’s hurricane season. We like to think we’re safe
this far north of the gulf, though the air
is choked with salt…
…We cannot see the stars
because we hold them in our mouths—
a kind of sacrament…”
Read the entire poem at Hermeneutic Chaos.