All along, we'd thought we were in love with weather.
Azaleas blooming inky against the fence and all
the porch lights loosening. Women named Alice
or Ingrid smoke in clamorous rooms with long windows,
their spines opening to back roads and folksongs.
We had thought ourselves in love with thirst, whether
or not the sky opened and showed us its teeth.
We dreamt of beheadings and antebellum skirts,
power lines crossing and recrossing the atmosphere,
frenzied as the letters of our names.
