At The Funeral

 
You stayed too long
in your town of
narrow streets, broken dreams
when all the great left before their time
searching for meaning
in rain and desert wind
crossing the crisscross
scars of the heart.

The morning aged, perfunctorily
snowing unexpectedly
seven years of oblivious divinity
sweeping the earth with silence
past remembrance and burnt flowers
reading your obituary:
Death
by
Overindulgence of Passion

The painted women
came to your funeral
dressed in dusk and perfume
weeping at your feet
rubbing sweet oil
on your skin
with plumes of myrrh
sifting rosary
seventy times seven

Lacrimosa
rippled in waves of mourning veil
brushing against my cheek
numb in nothingness
standing like a pillar of salt
with a bouquet of poetry
in a room blanketed
with white dust

It’s late-
 too late..
but
I can’t break-
away from you
wanting to wreak
all that is beautiful

Your lips
pale, cold
as marble stone
under my fingertip
I slid a copper penny
in-between
for
safe journey
to aging voices
murmuring
vespers of whispers
around me.

Hush!
Sleep now.. Love
You have carved the eternal peace
in dreams and fevers
around my rib cage
festooning my heart

We have already said
too much in this lifetime.