The Coming and Going
To the lean lime grass, bent in the light—I surrender.
and the rough-throated oak telling me white in the winter —yes.
The swandip of your neck: arrogance or humiliation?—either.
My own stilted dreams, meat and milk—ether.
We will someday call across the deathroom
for a husband, a lover, and will be met
with tears and halting sighs, remembering
the back room between stacked boxes.
Summer thighs surrender.
The salty wash of tongues, our seashell fragrance.
(That was before death.) We grieve ahead—yes.
And that dank back room,
finally together —fumbling cannibals,
murmured incantations: loadseed
and your midnight sobbing, my blue
goodwill pills. God, and our letters, look,
written with such greedy care!
Ink and wine and paper. I can’t believe you’re gone, you’re—here.