Before we were there, a volcano in Chico erupted.

I dreamed alone of watching the fire-pit bloom.

Like a soup ladle, scalding colors broke the crest.

You dropped your camera balancing that crest.

It melted black in the lava’s trundle, and its lens erupted.

Below our smudged sneakers, we watched the smoke bloom.

In 1979, borealic reds and blues fanned the Galápagos into bloom.

Right where we stood, lahars and slow-fire heaved a gorging crest.

But I know outside my dream it is not Volcán Chico that erupted.

In Chico, we erupted, but our bloom of passion split down the crest.