salt bicycle

there is a forecast of rabbit rain.
we were all children in the wild 
shoulders of august. 
the afternoon rang every bell
it could find. you were the boy prophet
& i was the girl prophet
at least for that night. spent the first
part of the day gazing into the oracle
which spat out every kind of sadness.
curtains drawn. your father had
just died three weeks before
& we had not talked about it since.
i had stopped letting myself eat.
discovered the horrifying glory
of disappearance. my body a hallway maker.
we took turns taking bites
out of mealy ghost apples. a video game
knocked on the windows. i told you,
"let's go & be kingdoms." pedaling
down the sacrifice hill. your hair
turning into butterscotch.
i considered you my corn husk. 
my cantaloupe speaker. spitting
cherry seeds at the sun. of course
i could feel it was going to rain 
in my bones & blood but i let us go
anyway to the edge of the world
on bicycles made of salt.
overlooking the highway. 
downpour. earth-shattering.
the bicycles dissolving
in the deluge. nothing but pickle tongue. 
nothing but tuning forks. moon. 
"how are we going to get home?"
you asked. all i could think was
"we are not going home." it was like
the whole town fell away behind us.