Last of all,
they felt the burning temple
all the yearning and other feelings
left through the door already
with ample time.
The exit sign was off
none of the usual signs
but a spasm, a cough.
What do you expect?
They have no notion or respect
for a poet’s propensity towards the act.
They want for nothing,
they do not feel they are dead,
not even the sting
registers in the pit.
The head is full of rust,
the bowels are full of shit.
They will return to dust.
The pattern was only ever on loan -
it’s time to give them back.
They will return to the black,
they have already forgotten it all on their own,
and the burning too has passed.
They will be others at last.
They are dark paper on the rift.
This is the gift,
all in common, each person gets a few
I love you
I love you
I love you
