Feathers raised
For clearest flesh, unscarred
In our absence,
With the sky’s only grave
Worth finding.
I recall the quilts
Built upon your form
To the softness
Worth discovering
As you were torn.
While skies were open
For your milk-white neck
Kissed down with droplets
Brought with breath.
While teardrops fade
Atmosphere into blurry white,
Here, loves goes gray
Under the moon’s path
Towards day.
I hold the iris open
Of a bud that never froze –
Your eyes within the bluest
Of white snow to the cruelest
Winter that gave the rush
Back towards your dust.
I love, while entrance becomes exit,
Upon the making of quiet funerals
While your lips shake the burn.
Modern Romanticism 