the too-bright flower
of your death opening, you stop,
the image arresting your hands.
I try to imagine those velvety petals, or silk—
the pink lining of coffins, rich invitations
to lie down and down.
Waiting for you to return to your body, and mine,
I suddenly see the diaries
shelved on the walls of your dreams.
Now years are being torn and tossed
out the night window,
and in the blue light
from the towel-draped lamp,
I stand at your side and watch pages
float to the ground.
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