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
