Precursives In a Minor

Precursives In A Minor My dear, you are dead now, and It follows that the dead cannot speak, But please dear woman, Utter however softly, Your ghostly peep, For we are your survivors, Following soon, As the buoy bell continues to toll, Way out there in the dark bay. My dearest one, you, Now sunken and cold, In your pearl-inlaid casket, Your cozy bed of now, Have found your final pillow. Well I remember another pillow, The one I gently rested your head upon, That damp effusive evening, When we, unfurled and tussling, Inside our shadowy room of pillows, Found a new kind of death. You said ‘Darling, light my cigarette,’ And I, with cuff links blazing, Stroked your polished fingers with desire, And said ‘Of course dear,’ And then you covered yourself With my rusty chapeau. ‘Is that the buoy bell tolling again? I can hear it through your breathing, and Your relentless penetrations.’ No, there is nothing there, except My dangling tongue, Reaching in like a bear for the throat. And yet, my dear, You never turn away, You always keep your long silent gaze, When this dripping candle here, Slowly fades, as it must. I