Dead Man Dead Woman
He never wept,
though there was much for which to weep.
And stone grew
inward, on the collarbone of love
worked its pattern
down the sinews to his spine then out
along the spills
and rivulets of blood.
It fastened on the inner soil
until the house was dead.
Alone were left the genitals,
hanging loose around the eaves.
Therein grew
the tree of life, disjunct, a separation
from the death
that doomed his cold, his pale, dry, eyes.
Into the open grave of those eyes
she gazed and grew afraid,
saw the flowers of his life take heed
and sink away in seed to other fields.
From his grave he cried,
the sound a bag of stones
dropped down an endless and infected well.
It cracked the open door of her red heart.
She never weeps
though there is much for which to weep.