Who’ll know then, when they walk by the grave 
where your bones will be brittle things – this bone here 
that swoops away from your throat, and this, 
which perfectly fits the scoop of my palm, and these 
which I count with my lips, and your skull, 
which blooms on the pillow now, and your fingers, 
beautiful in their little rings – that love, which wanders history,  
singled you out in your time?
                                      
                                               Love loved you best; lit you  
with a flame, like talent, under your skin; let you 
move through your days and nights, blessed in your flesh,  
blood, hair, as though they were lovely garments 
you wore to pleasure the air. Who’ll guess, if they read  
your stone, or press their thumbs to the scars 
of your dates, that were I alive, I would lie on the grass 
above your bones till I mirrored your pose, your infinite grace?