of future cosmetics

…There are

good reasons for death, you said,

and sucked the spicy liquor from my

last small breath.

What they might try to map out

on my face, or with needles


I would rather burn


The unfinished quilts

pressed, in a case, beneath the bed


Some still uncut and, so, whole


But waiting


Of floral wreaths, lily stench, baskets lined

like seniors’ beds with impermeable sheets


And the pale dog, lost now, somewhere pleased

or desperate, wondering


That last drink drawn between us


An imperceptible surge in the grid, in

the walls that hide our wiring


But not of death

(Of dying