To the Second to Last Poet

The day would come – we saw it
and now pondering the verse
carved into your damp granite
I will remember the curse,

how we dared color gray rows

 
It comes like the tide
only wavering in the moments
you recede, emotions harbored
just beyond the corner of her eye
and the rock-steady hands
that hold her bruised fingers

 
To float on oxycodone clouds
listing in the painless nothing,
white on white on white and paling
as vitals descend to garish lines
and numbers on a blank screen.

 
        “Says crocuses
        coaxed out of hiding
        and killed in the snow”

 
A fog on glass
translucent skin
presses the surface
cooling the flesh
as droplets cascade
the subtle curves.
Tumescent shapes
emerge in the shiver
as steam whirls away