Well Met in the Bone Garden
(From His Coy Mistress to Sir Andrew Marvell)
O marvel, sir! at this bed
of worms, an eternal eating.
The found buffet of our grave state —
just as you described.
Here, lay your head upon the loam,
recall the last breath of your fine
mowing. Dream the green, bounty
of wide thighed fields.
Mirage of skin. Everything dust.
Spent spigot. All births still.
From the flowering staff –
Time enough, but no world.
The only fruit is stone, peach
bitter without the sweet.
Wake. Press into this decadent decay,
garden of corsetted corpses.
I shall leave you to it.