Anniversary

Not, not to be known, always,

not always to be known by my wounds,

I buried melancholy’s larvae

and followed you. Gathered

myself like dusk

to the black tulips of your nipples. (Tulips, tulips).

For seven days we locked the door,

we scoured the room with bird’s blood.

And for a little while

in the hollow where your throat rose

from between your splendid clavicles (rose, rose),

our only rival was music,

the piano of bone-whiteness. 

Nor did the light subside,

But deepeningly contracted.

The rawness of the looking.

The quiver.