Heaven is Us Being a Flower Together

for V

I think death comes at blindness.

I think pupils are sails,

and death is when the wind goes slack.

Winter, by being so white,

it is trying to talk to me—

closing communicated to one who sees death

as white worms

riddling the apple of the eye.

You think death comes at the cessation of touch.

You are a flower bulb

which can feel even in the winter earth:

coldness as its body

of sensation.

The cold is a line that will not bend,

drawn through you foot to head.

Heat is a planet

fleeing its own cold line,

its primary chill.

I have written this poem inside of you.

I am clutched in with your mother blood,

feeling your bends in the dark,

becoming a soft bend in your body.

I feel a circle grow in your stomach.

We are becoming a bulb

in the ground of the living,

in the winter of being alive.