Sublime

bouquet

Death is everywhere, oppressive and beautiful.

gingerly

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year.

as if he, too, might have another hundred years or two to document what time hides forever in plain sight.

We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.

"'Fraid the ladies will eat you?" he scoffed.