Fridge again at two my lovely
and shoulderblades like butter
oven-warm with extra blood my
true and heart off beat — you flutter
wings of flesh. If they were mine they'd
knock like bone, but on your back
they fold the air, and send you heaven
bound, where clouds you move and pack
to shape your winding frame become
like lovers, close, and small.
This is more your love, this death,
what's robbed you most of all:
fridge again at two my lovely
and shoulderblades like butter | 
