After "Stainless Sunset..." by Michelle Noteboom

Glut
by Jonathan Wonham

He carries her, light as a shadow,
between the dusty vines.

She turns her face towards the sun,
eyelids shimmering, crepe papery.

Her sweet translucence
fattens his tongue.

Might the crushed city
from which they have come

gently reform over them
like children cradled in a concrete ark?

Through their teeth, the ladies sing
of that vast glut, of how

the glimpse is slipped, of how
a candle flickers on, untouched.