We simper in the grass next to the path,
and ration out our fleeting kisses—sweet
as figs. The earth beneath us, like the wraith,
is putrid and light. Into it, we seep.
Pale death impels us—as fronds wanting dew
are whetted by the falling, springtime rain,
and therefore, our conceptions we undo—
to come to dust and slip out of our names.
Untimely, planting a thought in the green
to be ambrosia for the buzzing flies.
Our hearts are swept up in the flowing stream,
and frothing—foaming—they resolve to die.
Our spirits have leapt from the grassy lee
and toppled the sun to receive their wings.
