Emile and Marie

The Human Being

Life ends in sepia.
There are buttons to be sewn,
empty stomachs to fill -
the stars to imagine
as falling soldiers
coming home to mothers
and girlfriends
who would not lie beside
them in hotel beds, lick
their tears off of dirty pans,
ease aches or
pretend.

Life is perfect timing -
behind your eyes,
stolen moment.
The passion picnic,
fingers like sparks, all silver and
gold.
Under glass
you feel me as an entomologist
touches bugs.
You float in Paris, an offering
- how you
opened yourself
underneath mothy sheets,
suspended
metamorphosis.