Insular Bliss

I'm as undone as any seatbelt,
or a busload of crosses,
criss-crossed on the side
of the road.

I'm as cold as any dead
horseshoe crab,
crawling out of a famine,
riding bright and black
and apocalyptic.

The music of mathematics,
Like a low lovely rattle,
a savoir to a dusty death.

Eyes as wide as any November day,
Family, a word, an ideal,
Imploded inside of me,
Now I long for love.