don’t think of end, my only friend,
when parallels do sing.
with broken chyme and tattered rhyme
the morning bells do ring.

don’t think of death when you’re at rest,
my lovely love of mine.
your bloody thoughts are those that brought
disaster to my mind.

don’t think of me, my chickadee,
nor barter off your life.
though mine are scarred, from stardust are
such breasts like yours derived.

don’t seal in tombs my raptured womb,
don’t flush away my hope.
don’t squirrel away the small decay
nor set up plans to cope.

for if I die alone, then, well,
please bury me alive.
the dirt and worms, my dreams confirm
are gentler alibis.