Outside
gray as a nail.

Tomorrow will be
like a popped balloon,
string

dragging in mud.
I keep possibilities
folded

like a photo in my
pocket. Your
vermilion

body leans
close, even though
I know

it has long drifted
to dust. Inside
the coffin

no one to brush
stray hair, to prop
your head

on a pillow.
Out here only
the sky

with its
stake-down
manner,

its
long blown—
out candles.