Cloud of Dust.
Every day the sign-- someone was coming. We could see it miles
away on the flat, western plain. The day of our wedding, the minister
late, we scanned the horizon. Should we marry without the preacher?
Every day a sign-- we will marry the dust. Three pale pink gladioli
stalks, one for my hand, two for our graves. The wind, faithful
lifts its wings, riffles the pages: Dearly beloved, we are gathered
here, then there, grit in our kisses, our fingers tracing the other as a
million motes rise up and fall.