Pause, I thought,
say something true: It was night,
I wanted to kiss your lips, which remained
but all the water in them had been replaced
with embalming compound. So I was angry.
I loved the poppies, with
their wide-open faces,
how they carried themselves, beckoning to me
instead of pushing away. The way in and the way out
are the same, essentially: emotions disrupting thought,
to God, the pain of separation.
I loved the poppies, with their effortless
like grief and fate, but tempered and formalized.
Your hair was black and curly; I combed it.