She is drowning evermore.
Black dresses rivet when the wind blows.
Drops are gliding down your cheekbones.
This corpse, it slumps its way to Hades.
Dear God, I beg, let her sleep at my shoulder
Under wooden sheets- we’ll dream eternity.
Or bear me new body in infancy;
I will find her in old age, a tired widow.
And she will recognize my touch.
Jonathan Alford
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/widow-s-mite-2/
