Old times

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I want to dig open your grave
I want to dig open your grave to smell you again.
I want to carry your bones in my messenger bag, so I can look at them when I'm bored at the dentist's
Or when I'm in a queue for my tickets at the cinema
I want to brush the remaining filaments of your hair at dawn
And wash them at noon
And humor them at night
I want to find an inch of your skin and sow it in your ceramic pot
You loved it so; and it always yielded well.
I want to bury your crippled teeth under my pillow
And push daisies in the sockets of your skull.

Now tell me, is it any good that you rest so quietly?
Foolish are my feet to tread so lightly.
Midnight come, and I will whisk you out
Be equipped, my dear
For we will paddle off into the moonlight like old times.


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