mumber 3

I was in a dumpster.

I was next to the dwindling river;
I was with you. Who knows when we stopped
and if we stopped together.

I know you’re out there, lost in your pillows
of ash and grief, to rise only to mourn

yesterday, today, and all tomorrows,
wrapped alone in strange strangling sheets, worn

as little shrouds after the little death
of another sunset celebration.

Each night a worship of pink delights, breath
held captive in our private elation