…still counting the seconds you are gone,
i am antique roman; i am open, these stone graves, 
these clumps of catching pitch in my chest, and 
the blonde straw of bird-men thatching, making 
rooftops, ridgepoles, and nests nestled 
       down in the wrinkles ‘tween the bones in my head.
the birds, their warbling punishing, and 
my mantra, the eleventh cure for migraine 
i fervently repeat:
        this is what counts, counting 
        the seconds you are gone.

                              and then
neither you, nor earth, nor stone, nor the 
clumps of searing pitch in my chest, 
nor the bird-men making homes in my brain

all i need do is love you, by the truest way, a music, a
halting, reaching silence, a 
melody for all the nights leaping up upon clouds, 
              and a-down dies the game.

              a-down dies the game, and
all are cherry blossoms kissing wind, 
passionately a-lovaling like moths dancing, then,
i could almost pick a plum 
right off the ground, place it back on the limb,  
                        then cry gold, 
cry true gold, weeping with joy, welding the shards of 
this chalice where once i held you, babies.

this i value. 
             to break, and continue.  
             to break, and continue.

this is most lovely.
and up from the catacombs, i rise.