And so we’ll find ourselves some one day
together in earth’s primordial clasp,

perpetual night having enfolded us
in its rich gesture of comfort,

the drum of distant freight trains
passing, now and then,

like the synchronized pulse
of spent lovers,

the two of us silent
in this new womb,

familiar as the last,
your white shroud candling

the pitch, my velvet bag
of bone and ash

pressed above your heart,
patient for time and elements

to undo the seams, sift me
between the wax and wane

of your crumbling ribs
like sand in the throat

of an hourglass, and we’ll await
our measured resurrection

through roots of beech,
through bole and branch

into leaf, into summer’s chartreuse
and silver, autumn’s slit-wrist

red and umber.
Winters, we’ll rattle

like dice in a gambler’s palm,
fracture the horizon

like a child’s zig-zag lightning
against ravenous sky.