There’s reason in your function
of curves and heat,
in your slim technology of danger,
of parts moved by a precision
of grey eyes twitching in
thin light,
wedded to these simple
geometries of purpose.

You cooled in the outhouse.
Long as a board, blood
and something I had not yet learned
dried at your exit points.

It was me who did the burial.
Dug a too-small hole,
folded you in.

Cogs touch, time falls.
You curl towards mornings
heavy on threadbare chairs,
of summer dreams thick with
your fill of the night, of
your part in it all.

The car didn’t stop till
you were under, then through.
You made it to the shed
and rested. We called for you.

Clocks drop a future onto now.
Roses push their roots through you.
We grow.