Heatless Engines

If you were here I'd tell you stories
about how all the broken hearts from the 70's
ended up on New Jersey beaches
but tonight it's so cold I can barely remember
if I'm wearing any clothes at all
so I know that you're cold too
in your room and in your poems
filled with heatless engines pleading "let me in"
oh, you know I'd let them in.
Like wound watches you are intricate,
filled with gems, and loaded springs
but for me you'll always run like new—
what's a boy to do
in love with the weekend
and a sweetness his tongue can't comprehend.
I think it's only fitting
if this is how all great civilizations end,
collapsing in the pre-dawn
with hair like copulating snakes
tangled and adrift in the darkness of space
and against their better judgement
hissing for more.