pretend, love
that our death, a vaunting crow,
circles us supine
beneath this sycamore.
that this is a story.
that the tail murmurs
and that now we must rest
our one limb upon the other limb
and upon the limb of the other.

or do not
pretend, as i sleep
in your coffin

these nights
beneath this city, quiet
as birds

building nests in our
hair, and nests in our eyes.
the last lick of sun above us,
above the sycamore and above
the crow growing wet
and distant.

pretend that our death
circles us in the thin
air above the row
of lemons, in the hassle of traffic,
in the solemn singing
of mouths as they pass me;
a line of lighted windows.

02/06/2003

Posted on 02/06/2003
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