Love Poem # 46

~ For Miranda

We are like Méliès,

that artist of the silent film
who died poor --
the fate of all who pursue

something out of love.

Face it. 

We make a handsome, 
paranoid couple

sleepwalking backwards 
hand-in-hand in 

the midst of plots 
and sheer drops.

We back our way into tomorrow,

looking down but leaning
both shoulders against a filthy wind.

We back our way
into a flotsam of broken voices,

the detritus of arguments

we never saw coming.