The bride loses interest half way through the ceremony.
She sits down on the altar steps, kicks off her shoes,
"You don't need me," she says without turning around.
"Marry my Boredom,
Fan them, frame them, fuck them...
I don't care."
This is not very romantic.
He marries his desk instead.
Tiny airplanes launch themselves from its carrier-like surface,
And he snatches them as if he were King Kong.
The blades of their little propellers core his hands and give him stigmata--
He is the Christ of the plastic cockpit.
And the bored bride?
Becomes the darling of the seance,
the Magic 8 Ball of the other side.
"Try again later," she says,
Hoping that someone will love her blank blackness,
That someone will shake her, hold her,
Join her in her soft remove
On the other side of the veil.