Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet 
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!—
that, all by itself, becomes a passion. 
Death's a sad bone; bruised you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from it's bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone of the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection. 

[Eternal gratitude to the words of Anne Sexton]

Death's A Sad Bone;

waïte