Your flesh
opened up
like a flower,
hyacinth petals
preening in a lake
of your blood.
If only you had
lived to see this
rotting rope
rubs against worms
that necklace her throat
knees kick down
the stairs
like dead fruit
falling from trees
in dark cellars,
shovels displace
remembered autumns,
smother them
in mud silence
in a rocking chair,
a pleased,
disfigured mouth
robs the air
of its oxygen
doesn't uproot
a thread of
your reflection,
this gentle vibration
of sinking flesh
not like the city
where her screams
swallowed a city whole,
stole the thrill
of your disposal
of the body
out here,
the pines, the oaks,
embrace the life
in death
as you do
floating eyes,
the gentle waltz
of blood on water
Copyright © 2002 by John Grey