the slow turn of water

the man reaches the ground, lowered in
waves. a hollow grave holds no
desire for the dead. every seed tinged in pomegranate crimson.
from between his legs, the
organ of slow demise. she felt its waft from
over the ground. bowing down, the hands only
reach the chest of grass. the
desire for hair in earth, soft, sometimes
fluid. I know the shape of hard.
skeletal. their boat drowns in
gentle gyration.
the wind has sung this dirge already. you
can write loss in this- the plump, the firm kind.
another centre merges perfectly into the margins, a slow
dive.