Attending the funeral of a faerie,
that is what William Blake claimed he did
in dream.

Then there is you – in convalescence by the lake.
dead in three months when the old tricks fail,
tubercular miners plucked out of the turnip-torn ground.

Maybe it was your funeral, and we were wrong all along.
Maybe it was the Fates, at spin, measure and cut.

A breaking fog over water-lapped rocks,
don’t you hear the lean of the trees
in splinter?

All those hours over cold coffee and twisted cigarettes.
I think we are dying together, like you always wanted.