If I was dead,
and my bones adrift 
like dropped oars 
in the deep, turning earth; 

or drowned, 
and my skull 
a listening shell 
on the dark ocean bed; 

if I was dead, 
and my heart 
soft mulch 
for a red, red rose; 

or burned, 
and my body 
a fistful of grit, thrown 
in the face of the wind; 

if I was dead, 
and my eyes, 
blind at the roots of flowers, 
wept into nothing, 

I swear your love 
would raise me 
out of my grave, 
in my flesh and blood, 

like Lazarus; 
hungry for this, 
and this, and this, 
your living kiss.