(noyade)

These are not the funeral games I had in mind

You won’t forget
and it means the world
but nothing has been drawn
beyond your own conclusion

did you take my words
at their word? I told you
the meaning was yours
and you nodded

(handshake;
data
un-
authenticated)

the recipes for exuberance and despair
differ only in the pinch of salt
one takes with one’s metaphor
(oh, rats, and dash it all, sugar

I’m in it up to my neck
but my defiance, and my song, persist –
it’s a feat(her) of arms
and a trick of the wrist)

kill me you said
I refuse to be brought back
this (peevish, fluctuant
document) is my last will and

you (whoever will be left
after the flood) will NOT
bury my body (and what
could we do, then, there,
but agree?)

The morning after that shortest night
was lapis chased in gold; a fringed bolt
of cotton unrolling on a royal bed
as I drove north across town.

Mistake me not – it was a precious
and actual gift, given to all;
beyond me to fathom how anyone, (let alone
one young and wise) could turn it down

Do not ask me to such a bedside again
Creon may have walled you in
before you had a hope of defying him
and I must hope that you (alone)
can prove me wrong

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