A heron beat across the steaming marsh.
He heard each rush of wings, so still the air,

No matter what, hold hard to me as breath .
Oh, black branches! We are not made for death.

Fumbling till she steered his blue mouth to nipple.
      “Oh, but he’s lovely.”

You were gravely pulling up his best necktie,
Smoothing down his collar for that calm journey.
He drew off the body. a limp, soiled garment,