Blanketed the body, as
beneath a veil
Exhumed by smoke, the
ashes of ashes, the
hair weighed down with anchors at
the ends of them. Seated an
empty table at the chest, heavy in a
burdened solitude, kiss it in the night time
when the moon turns its back to you. Was
pockets with deep holes, patched at the
knees with a painful thread, kicking
at old dust until it assaults the eyes.
I have not died yet, but live also as
undead, once dead, and now undoing,
fluttering from grave to garden like a
doomed butterfly, weakening but still trying
to bloom