My torso is a cedar chest in the brief closet
Of the middle of a country, hollow

Until three young sisters
Curl there like marsupials and shut

The bevelled door and die there,
Not determined yet, into

The camphored pouch of an Otherworld.
Around this death there was a fine Nile jar

Of halo-light, where I am
Thinking of you now,

Everything; you’re all

Out of time like a nightjar In the diorama of the great hall

Of prehistory, depicting the tiny cataclysmic
Moment of some mythic, leggy

Accident that changed the world
One day, numinous as a Petrarchan

Sunflower in the night. A moment
Perfect as a bee suspended

In the perfect weather of a honey jar.
Your heart was cinctured, full, surrounded

By a hinder of restharrow
Roots, nestled in its little parasol

Of amber grief, willful as a wooden tiger standing
In an empty yellow room.

While you were leaving, I was lying, eastward,
On my back, like a pharaoh counting

The layers of muslin wound
Around my cumbrous (nearly human)

Hand, counting the days until
An evermore arrives.