Watch the shadow of your words
dance across the frost-bitten grass;
the delicate landscape crinkles under
our weight, like a dropped wine glass,

empty, echoes through our house,
our bodies. The empty field
where our argument heats the air,
forcing it to steam, subjugated

by our ever-present pressure,
witnesses our self-imposed fall,
obedient and objective.
We offer no notice of our trespass

as we impose verbal chaos
upon these frigid meadows.
Settled instead into our newly
acquired roles of star-crossed lovers.