Two weeks ago, I watched “Days of Heaven”

at Suns Cinema. There were some real locusts,

some just peanut shells. The film was made from shards

of three years, so it looked like memory –

the memory of weddings, the memory of fire.
The drink I held was melting and melting,

until it was bathwater.

I don’t know if that film was about love,

which I’ve felt as bodies smearing in the wheat,

and our souls staring out between the fingers.

Maybe the locusts were close enough.

Alien-blue seraphs, the engines in hunger.
It was only after the movie ended, that I felt

a chewing in my lungs, the grazed reminder,

that I was holding my breath again – that I was

holding my breath again,

the locust in my chest – which was exactly

how it felt to be with you, so long ago.