Time stops. She’d moved
through the tall yellow sage
as they copulated,
stood only a few feet
away, enveloped in the scent
that drew them together.
In this obituary your wife, now widow,
posts, I find a photo of you running a hand
along Gokstadt’s blackened bow,
mizzen snapped, the nail bolts sanded
down by time.
And the girls are always smiling, their shoulders
encased in graduation black
or bared down to the peeled-back petals of the
Everything the old woman said was true.
Then she suffered a heart attack and died in Ruth’s arms.
From the ceilings of our tiny tunneled chambers, we hang.
Workers bring their parcels—drops of toothsome honeydew
fallen from foreign floral nectaries.