it accepts and embraces in death

what was not embraceable in life.

The grave becomes you and fits

like a tattered glove on the mangled hand

of an industrial accident.

As in life, so in death corruption

flourishes on your tongue

staining the satin enclosing.

Tangles of moss grow witch-like

in the masses of dark hair

nestled under each arm

hiding the shatters of bone beneath.

You look good.

I like you in walnut and satin.

This is the first time in years

that you've heard every word Iv'e said.

No words to defend.

A trained professional

has sewn your lips together.

As I stand before you in the rain

I feel light, buoyant and free

in this rustic place

amid the gorse and blood-drenched

blackberries.

I fumble with trouser buttons

in order to relieve myself,

I smile.

Yes, I smile

as the spatters run serpentine

down the granite memory of your name.