Were you, yourself, a stranger with no clear account of his dying?
An accident crowned that day.
A ticket arrived, golden and hollow,
at his bedside.
He board a ship in the morning
that carried no heartbeat
I think this is all we talk about.
A mad voyage where listeners were
not, until now.
And were we strange to his fable, with his legs up on the couch?
I should say to him, I am not.
There are two bodies I know,
inside and out.
I fasten their heads together in knots around my chest
on my own mad voyage that carries no heart,
that is strange to his hand on my shoulder, softly at rest from the world.