C/A/D/

and my bones adrift

like dropped oars

in the deep, turning earth;

or drowned,

and my skull

a listening shell

on the dark ocean bed;

if I was dead,

and my heart

soft mulch

for a red, red rose;

or burned,

and my body

a fistful of grit, thrown

in the face of the wind;

if I was dead,

and my eyes,

blind at the roots of flowers,

wept into nothing,

I swear your love

would raise me

out of my grave,

in my flesh and blood,

like Lazarus;

hungry for this,

and this, and this,