by John Grey
The only white he knows
is tombstones,
your neck,
another moonlit canvas
to mark with dates, with death,
for pointless flowers
to rhapsodize
as they wither
in the shadow
of your decay.
Even touch does not fool him,
the cemetery bed
pandering to
his dark expectations,
your life sucked out
through grave-digger lips,
as bitter cold marble
rises up into his fingers,
your flesh stiff and pale
as the bone
it clings to.